


Spice Cake and Sugar Frosting

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Affection, Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belly Rubs, Birthday Smut, Chubby Shiro, Coming In Pants, Consensual Kink, Dessert & Sweets, Dirty Talk, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Feeding Kink, Feedism, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Frottage, Grinding, Groping, Humiliation, I'm Sorry, Keith (Voltron) Is A Tease, Kink Negotiation, Kink Without Plot, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Shiro (Voltron), Safewords, Self-Indulgent, Shameless Smut, Shiro (Voltron) Is A Tease, Situational Humiliation, Size Difference, Stuffing, Teasing, The Author Regrets Everything, Tight Pants, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12080325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: The plan is for them to spend Keith’s birthday having dinner at home, followed by their own special, private party, but between Keith over-estimating how much food they’ll need, Shiro getting too big for his favorite jeans, and both of them being easily distracted by kisses and kinky teasing? Well, let’s just say that Keith and Shiro hit a few snags along the way, but at least neither of them exactlyminds.





	Spice Cake and Sugar Frosting

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, this fic is completely shameless and self-indulgent. There is essentially no plot, just a bunch of kink. Have fun with that. Or don’t, if you’d rather not. I’m not your boss.
> 
> Some general notes:
> 
>   * Keith and Shiro are written as being in their mid-20’s in this fic. They are adults engaging in loving, 100% consensual, mutually supportive and adoring kinky nonsense together for Keith’s birthday. Let them have fun.
>   * In case the tags and summary have not made this clear: **this is chubby!kink fic featuring consensual verbal humiliation.**
>     * **What this means:** Shiro is fat and Keith is super-into Shiro being fat. There are descriptions of his fat body and references to weight gain that are meant to be erotic, but might be squicky or triggering for you if this kink is not your kink and/or you struggle with body image or eating disorders. Hell, this _is_ my kink, and I can’t even always get into it because I deal with those issues as well. So, please, look out for yourself and tread carefully. ♡
>     * **As for the humiliation:** It is completely consensual and essentially a sexy roleplaying game. Keith says things that rely on fat-shaming language, tropes, and ideas not because he actually believes them, but because it gets his boyfriend hot. But one person’s kink is another person’s potential trigger, especially when we’re talking about humiliation, so again? Please tread carefully, and avoid this fic if that might squick or trigger you. ♡
>   * I completely agree with what @donutwolf says in the A/N on her Keith/chubby!Shiro fic, **“[Big Spoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10238138)”** : the lack of chubby!Shiro content in this fandom is a travesty. Here’s my offering to try and correct that. Also, you should go read that fic, if you haven’t already. It’s utterly delightful, the way she writes Keith and Shiro is lovely, and the sex is _so nice_.
>   * I got the idea for Keith and Shiro having, “red” and, “black” (respectively) as safewords from geckoholic’s fic, **“[Say You Had It All](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11280738)”** — which is in no way chubby!kink, but _is_ a great little Sheith fic with amazing characterization and a good mix of sweetness and angst, and it has an A+ D/s scene, if you’re into that.
>   * Additionally, this wouldn’t have gotten finished without the various forms of encouragement from Nerni, Ink, Bosstoaster, Robyn, Lily, Saph, Shady, and Exysketchy. Thank you all, you’re all great. ♡
>   * Hi, my name is Kassie, I love chubby!Shiro, and my #1 kink is Shiro being happy, safe, and loved. …Sorry, not sorry?
> 

> 
> Also, this wasn’t beta-read, merely looked over by yours truly, so any remaining mistakes are mine. ♡

Wriggling into the snug black denim that got picked out for tonight, Shiro can’t decide whether he should focus on all of the sensations right here, right now or on literally anything else. Most likely, Keith would vote for the former and salivate through Shiro narrating every possible detail. Keith, however, isn’t the one who has to negotiate with a pair of too-small jeans.

There’s the lightbulb flickering in one arm of the floor-lamp, over in the corner of his and Keith’s bedroom. The door from there into the bathroom is still closed; Keith’s waiting behind it, but he’s given Shiro no idea what he’s doing to prepare. Mixed smells waft in from the kitchen, but most of them aren’t terribly strong when they reach Shiro’s nose and it’s too easy to get lost or get them muddled. Teriyaki chicken here, spiced tomato sauce and cheeses there, enchiladas made with a recipe that Keith got from Hunk, who swore up one side and down the other that Lance loved them almost as much as his Mami’s _ropa vieja_ … It’s not like Shiro’s starving for things that he could pay attention to.

Technically, he guesses that hasn’t been starving for much of anything since he and Keith moved in together two years ago, as anyone could assume from a two-second glimpse of Shiro’s plump, doughy midsection, his rounded cheeks and jawline, or his sizable love handles. Even if someone hadn’t known his taut stomach and waspish waist, his fastidious, low-carb and lean protein calorie-counting, his exhaustingly intense gym schedule, or the slight-but-discernible gap between his toned, muscular thighs, _“starving”_ is the last word they could justify using for Shiro now. Nor should they even try, considering how well-fed Keith’s kept him, and how enthusiastically their friends have gotten in on it ever since Shiro decided not to lose the little belly he’d gotten after gaining his first twenty-five pounds and letting his abs go soft.

About the only things that Shiro’s ever starving for include, but are not limited to, Keith’s hands sinking into his gut and jostling it to his heart’s content. Keith straddling his thighs while faux-complaining about how it’s getting harder to find a space to sit in Shiro’s lap, how Shiro’s ample belly keeps threatening to push him off, how Shiro’s _really_ letting himself go, isn’t he (probably said while popping sweets into Shiro’s mouth). Keith grinding his slender, sinewy body into Shiro’s fat because he knows how much they both get off on the disparity between their sizes…

But that’s on tonight’s menu anyway. All Shiro has to do is play along and wait.

_Heh, wait… Weight…_ It’s not a joke, it’s barely even fully-formed wordplay, but Shiro chuckles all the same.

Still, that promise of forthcoming fun doesn’t tame his meandering attention span. As he argues with his clothes about getting on his body, Shiro keeps letting his eyes dart around the bedroom. He pauses for a deep breath or five, which totally isn’t an excuse to wallow in the heady, spicy smell of the enchiladas and imagine wrapping his lips around a fork when Keith holds it out for him and sucking the sauce-drenched meat into his mouth — except for how it really kinda is. A sharp knock on the bathroom door is the only thing that snaps Shiro out of his own thoughts.

“You better be getting ready,” Keith calls. “I don’t wanna be kept waiting on my birthday.”

“So, you won’t be! Just a few more minutes, okay? I’m almost done.” At the moment, Shiro doesn’t entirely know how accurate his estimate is, but it’s easier to tell Keith what Shiro thinks he wants to hear.

Besides, Shiro isn’t lying about being nearly ready and what he has left to handle shouldn’t be that difficult. He can absolutely get himself crammed into one of his favorite pairs of jeans. Especially for Keith’s birthday, because Shiro knows how much Keith loves these on him. Then, once Shiro has his pants in order, they’re staying in for a private party and having another with the gang tomorrow, so he can throw on any older shirt he pleases, as long as it has buttons for Keith to play with during dinner. Hopefully, those buttons will strain on his chest and belly enough that some of them will pop off before the meal’s over. Everything is perfectly straightforward.

Except, of course, for the part where _Keith’s_ the one who spent the summer bulking, trying to get more muscular, but _Shiro’s_ the one who’s having trouble with his jeans. After several minutes of struggling, he hasn’t reached the point of sucking in his stomach to get them zipped and buttoned. He’s still trying to get them up his legs without splitting any seams.

Considering he hasn’t worn these jeans since early in this past spring, Shiro knew they’d be on the smaller side, but they went on with beguiling ease, at first. Past the soft dimples of his knees, however, he’s had to maneuver the denim up his legs, stretching it out as much as he can without ripping anything, then tugging the fabric as far as he can make it go before it snags on his flabby thighs again. That’s more than enough reason for Shiro to stay focused on the here and now — after all, it wouldn’t do, busting his jeans when Keith’s not even in the room to see it happen — but Shiro’s cheeks flush a little bit warmer, each time he has to regroup. Despite himself, Shiro’s whined his way through this entire process, because _knowing_ or just suspecting that these jeans don’t really fit him anymore isn’t the same thing as _feeling_ them clamp around his flab as if they want to cut off circulation in his legs.

Glancing at his reflection in the full-length mirror, he zeroes in on how strawberry-pink his cheeks are. They go bright red as Shiro shimmies and finally jerks his jeans up past the swell of his ass to rest at his hips. Getting them up this far should be cause to breathe easier, if not outright celebrate, but the writhing and the yanking makes Shiro’s belly wobble, and it doesn’t settle as he tries to steady his nerves. If anything, breathing deeply only seems to make him jiggle more. Reflexively, Shiro straightens his back and sucks in hard with each inhale, and on the exhale, he slouches while his gut balloons out to its full girth again. Maybe he’s imagining things, but he could swear that he sees tremors quivering through his stomach, just like all the ripples he sends through glasses of water when he isn’t careful about how he pads around the apartment’s kitchen or living room. Mocking him, his jeans might as well be painted on and the flaps are nowhere close to being buttoned.

With a heavy sigh, Shiro palms at his middle and allows himself a frown. True, he hasn’t been _slimming down_ , or even trying to — Shiro hopes like Hell he never has to live like that again — but he hasn’t _actively_ been gaining, either. Sure, he enjoyed all his usual summer indulgences while his twice-weekly gym visits are always for health maintenance and nothing else, but Shiro can’t have gotten too much bigger since the start of June, when he tipped the scales at 265 and decided to use the summer as an adjustment period. Not that he’d fight it if he’s put on more weight while eating what he wants without any intent beyond enjoying himself, but 265 marked a full seventy-five-pound gain from where Shiro’s weight had hovered when he’d finally given up a diet that he’d always hated. Even though he hadn’t gained it overnight, that extra weight felt like something Shiro wanted more time to get used to.

As he twists around, trying to look at the folds of chub along his back and sides, Shiro curses how much he avoids the scale in their bathroom. No matter how comfortable he’s gotten with his size (for the most part), and no matter how much Keith loves it, attaching numbers to everything still makes Shiro anxious. But as he pinches a substantial roll of belly-fat, Shiro can’t help thinking that, if he’d weighed in even once over the summer, he’d know for certain whether or not he can treat his boyfriend to seeing him in these jeans.

No, that’s ridiculous. …Well, perhaps the underlying logic isn’t, but Shiro’s taking it to the wrong conclusions because he can squeeze himself into these jeans and he’s going to get it done. Maybe they feel more constricting because his summer shorts and his slacks for work, with their looser, more accommodating fits, have given him more leniency than most of his colder weather pants. Between them and the sweats he usually wears all weekend, Shiro’s simply gotten used to having more wiggle-room and he needs to readjust. It can’t be anything else, though, because Shiro has _not_ outgrown these jeans. He _cannot_ have put on _that_ much weight this summer. Not when Keith wants to see him wear these pants again. They’re supposed to be tight on Shiro, that’s kind of the point, but he still needs to get them _on_.

Shiro grumbles as he pulls his waistband further up his hips, inching it toward his _actual_ waist. Doing up the button around his hips might’ve been easier, but he would’ve felt _ridiculous_ , even if Keith’s the only one who sees it. Even with all the extra weight he’s piled onto his once-athletic frame, Shiro’s torso has a naturally narrower part to it. Up at his natural waistline, his flab dips in before billowing out again, splitting his midsection into a permanent muffin-top and a bigger, drooping roll of paunch. It’s perfect for getting covered in Keith’s kisses, but letting it out of his pants means none of Shiro’s shirts can cover his belly, because even the biggest ones aren’t that long. Taking in a deep breath helps Shiro get his jeans up the rest of the way, and doing up the jeans should get _easier_ now. Not easy exactly, but no matter how much he weighs right now, Shiro’s gut is smallest at his bellybutton.

Except that a swath of sun-kissed, faintly stretch-marked tawny skin winks up at Shiro from between his gaping fly, while his lower belly-bulge strains against the fabric trying to keep it contained. Except that grunting and tugging on the flaps doesn’t get the button through its hole.

“‘Just a few more minutes,’ huh?” Keith drawls, and smirks playfully when Shiro startles for him and blushes. He’s leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, wearing a long-sleeved red henley and his own pair of tight black jeans (which perfectly hug his lean, toned thighs and sit _just right_ on Keith’s trim waist), and watching Shiro like a cat who’s trying to make up their mind about letting someone pet them. Or possibly one who wants to play with the canary first, rather than simply eating it. “And, uh, what happened to you _maintaining_ instead of gaining, babe?”

Shiro’s cheeks burn and he slouches enough to push his fly even further open. “It was a more delicate procedure than expected, okay? The seams kept trying to rip on me.” He tries not to smirk right back at Keith as he adds, “I think these jeans must’ve shrunk in the wash.”

Keith rolls his eyes and snorts at that ridiculous excuse as he pushes off the door-frame. He drags his eyes up and down Shiro’s body while coming to his side. “Well, I think you’re on some _serious_ wishful thinking right now, Tubby,” he says, brushing his fingers down the slope of Shiro’s belly. “See, I know how to do the laundry, and there’s no way that I would _ever_ shrink your _favorite jeans_. So, y’know what I think? I think that you’ve just gotten _bigger_.”

If almost anybody else were saying that, Shiro would be sucking in as much as he can manage and straightening his back. But the person saying it is Shiro’s _Keith_ , and aside from that, he can’t take his eyes off of Shiro’s belly. Ghosting his fingers over Shiro’s muffin-top with only a slight nudge into his boyfriend’s flesh, Keith looks _ravenous_ , looks like it’s taking all the effort he has in him not to drag Shiro to the bed and fuck him senseless right now, this very second. Still, he keeps it together as he snakes his hand along the underside of Shiro’s belly before finally squeezing around the lower-hanging roll, probably filling his palm with all the chub that he can hold. 

“I think your fat ass gained a bunch of weight again, and now your favorite jeans don’t fit.” Keith hums like he wants to sound pensive. He jostles Shiro’s belly and makes the fat ripple. He nods, but still doesn’t look Shiro in the eye. “Yeah, it definitely feels like there’s more of you to love…” 

“There _isn’t_ ,” Shiro whines in faux-protest, trying so hard not to press against Keith’s hand when he’d love almost nothing more than to let Keith grope him and tell him how big and soft and fat he’s getting. “If I’ve put on any weight, which I haven’t? Then it’s probably just five pounds. Maybe ten, at the _most_.” 

“Five or ten pounds on top of how much you _already_ let yourself go before, you mean…” Keith lets the correction hang there between them for a moment, and as he looks up and meets Shiro’s gaze, his expression turns serious. “What d’you say if you want me to stop?” 

“ _Black_ ,” Shiro tells him without needing to think, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Keith’s ear. “And what about _your_ safeword?” 

“Don’t worry about me.” When that gets no response, Keith wrinkles his nose like an irritable kitten. “It’s _red_.” 

Even though they’ve had this same exchange so many times before, in different incarnations, Shiro usually insists upon it. He doesn’t wilt over the fact that _Keith’s_ bringing this issue up tonight, because that could mean several different things. Keith could be worrying about Shiro more than usual, because he knows that they can skirt close to complicated, messy feelings for him when they play like this, especially when Keith goes in hard. Or he could be making sure they get this out of the way because he’s eager and impatient and it _is_ , after all, his birthday so making him wait any longer than is necessary wouldn’t be very fair. _Or_ Keith could be planning something devilish and want to be clear on safewords before letting himself go through with it.

Either way, Shiro leans down to steal a gentle kiss. He gives Keith a nod and an easy smile by way of saying that they’re good and it’s okay, he’s fine. With a huff, Keith leans up to steal a kiss of his own — one that’s harder, rougher, deeper, but doesn’t last very long — and he’s smirking again when he settles back onto his own feet. He takes a step back and arches an eyebrow down at Shiro’s stomach, before smacking at the lower-hanging roll. Shiro gulps and tries not to get too caught up in how _good_ that sharp crack of pain feels, in how much he likes the wobbling that Keith’s hand sends through his flesh.

“If memory serves? ‘Ten pounds at the most’ would _still_ put you up to two-seventy-five,” Keith points out. As though it helps make his point and isn’t simply for his own enjoyment, he lifts Shiro’s lower pudge up by the underbelly, then lets it drop. The way Shiro’s middle trembles makes his face and the back of his neck burn like they’ve been set on fire, makes his breath hitch in his throat.

Keith smirks like the edge of a knife, like he’s preemptively giving his boyfriend an _I told you so_. “Judging from the state of your _blubber_ , Shiro? I’m pretty sure you’ve _long_ since passed two-seventy-five… You probably weigh at least _twice_ what I do now, don’t you.”

Keith stretches out so that his t-shirt pulls up and shows off how slim he is, not to mention how much harder and more defined his abs have gotten in the past few months. “I just clocked in at a buck-fifty-two, by the way. Which would put _you_ at three-oh-four. And to think, you used to be so slim, so _fit_ … Who’d’ve ever looked at you before and thought there was such a chubby hubby under all your old muscle, just _waiting, longing_ to get out—”

“I _haven’t_ gotten that fat, alright, Keith?” Shiro’s blush is spreading down his neck, and even though it’s hiding nothing, he folds his arms over his stomach. “Maybe I’ve gained a _little_ extra weight since we last checked, but there is _no_ way that I’m as far gone as you want to think.”

Keith arches an eyebrow and huffs out a breathy laugh. “Denial isn’t very attractive, babe. Especially not when I _know_ you’re smarter than that.”

“Denial of _what_? Your unfounded accusations? Everything you’re _obviously_ saying because you’re mad at me for not being ready right when you were?” Hugging himself tighter, Shiro sucks in his stomach but not by much. “You don’t even have any _evidence_! You’re just coming out here and _saying_ that I’m fatter because you _want_ it to be true—”

“Oh, you want _evidence_? Okay, how about the part where those jeans fit you perfectly back at Allura’s birthday. Now, you don’t even have them buttoned and you’re bursting out of them. How’s that for evidence that you have _seriously_ let yourself pork out this time?” Keith shrugs as if daring Shiro to argue with him, and when Shiro doesn’t take the bait, Keith groans.

Most people wouldn’t notice the difference between that sound and Keith’s normal aggravated groaning, but there’s a playful edge to it that Shiro picks up on that’s only meant for him to hear.

“Look, come on and prove me wrong, Shiro — if you really think you _can_.” Keith drops his hands to his slender, sharp-boned hips. If he really _has_ gained fifteen pounds, then absolutely none of it looks like fat. Pointedly arching an eyebrow, he says, “If you can get your pants done up, then fine, I’ll admit that you didn’t put on weight this summer, or at least you haven’t gotten too much bigger, and then back off. That’s that.”

“And what about if I _can’t_?” Even without knowing what Keith might offer, Shiro can make a few educated guesses. straightens up and starts tugging at his fly again. He doesn’t suck in, yet, though. Trouble fitting Shiro into his clothes wasn’t meant to be part of any scene tonight, but now that it is, there’s no reason for him to rush. Where’s the fun in that?

Keith shrugs and curls up his lips as he watches Shiro struggle, with a glint in his eye that says _Let’s get dangerous_. Keeping his voice light enough to sound almost like a threat, he comes closer again and tells Shiro, “If you can’t get those jeans fastened, or if you get them done up and the button comes off before you’ve even _looked_ at dinner? If you bust them open or split the seams or your _big. **fat.** ass._ rips them up the back like you did when Lance took us all home for his family reunion? If you prove me right about how you’re gaining weight without _really_ letting me enjoy it, and your favorite jeans don’t fit, and I’m held up from getting to our meal because you’ve gotten too big, and plump, and _flabby_ to even tease me through stuffing your face, when that’s the _only thing_ I asked you for tonight?”

He pats Shiro’s belly too gently for it to be completely honest before Shiro’s even partly stuffed. “You lose this bet, and I get you up on the scale for my birthday, while you get to see just how _fat_ your ass has gotten lately.”

Shiro grins, trying to make it look like false confidence instead of eagerness. “I’m not _fat_ , okay? I’m a little bit _chubby_ since I quit dieting all the time, but it isn’t like I’ve gotten _huge_ or anything. I am _definitely_ not too big for my favorite jeans. So what, I don’t look like a Calvin Klein model anymore. Sue me if you have to, Keith, ‘cause fact is? I can still do up my pants.”

Keith shrugs and somehow keeps his expression singularly unimpressed, even as he kneads his fingers against Shiro’s stomach, right under the dip at his bellybutton, right where the flab crests out again. “Then quit all your bragging at me and prove it already, Wide-Load. Unless you wanna concede defeat and admit I’m _right_ about you getting fat. I mean, it won’t get you out of letting me see how much you weigh, but you can spare yourself the busted jeans, at least.”

He presses his fingertips into Shiro’s flesh, digging in until he manages to get a whine. For all Shiro knows that part of this requires him to stay in character and stay in a certain mindset, he can’t help letting slip a sigh of admiration as Keith leans against the wall by the mirror. Maybe Shiro’s the one who let himself go off his diet, but Keith — the same Keith who normally only gets away with the lies so small, he doesn’t think of them as lies — shirks off everything he considers himself and slips into this headspace so easily, it’s almost unsettling.

But they have another problem in front of them, one that’s bulging out around Shiro’s midsection, still unsolved and keeping them from a dinner that Keith worked hard to put together. Shiro hasn’t put his best efforts into fixing this issue, though, so the wager could go either way. Straightening up again, Shiro breaks out the rigid posture he learned as a teenager, at the elite prep school his parents pushed him into, and sucks in his stomach as hard as he can. He tugs, he maneuvers, and he finagles, but after four near-misses with the button, Shiro lets his abdominal muscles go again. His fly only doesn’t totally fall open because he hangs onto it for dear life and pulls back as gravity tries to send his belly surging forward all over again.

Over on the wall, Keith snorts and mutters something about how this would all go away, all be so much _easier_ for both of them, if Shiro would just admit he’s put on too much weight to wear these jeans. He’ll probably never fit into them again as long as he lives, considering how he apparently couldn’t stop stuffing his face during his supposed _adjustment period_. But Shiro rolls his eyes and reminds Keith that _someone_ wanted to see him in these pants again, that someone being Shiro’s baby, and nobody puts Baby in a corner — or denies Baby what he wants when it’s his birthday, such as the case may be. Sounding like such a dork is worth it for the affectionate roll of the eyes as Keith momentarily drops character, but after another round of sucking in and yanking, Shiro’s jeans are no more buttoned-up than they were before.

Sighing, he shuffles over to their bed and flops onto his back. Hitting the mattress like this still reminds Shiro of the first time he found himself in this situation, a few months after he and Keith moved in together. He’d spent all five of them telling himself that Keith’s cooking wouldn’t affect him any (Keith’s talented in a kitchen but certainly no gourmand, so _of course_ his and Shiro’s cohabitation would never be like what happened when Lance moved in with Hunk), and he could afford to relax about his diet if it kept Keith from worrying about him, and really, he wasn’t skimping _that_ much at the gym so what could it _possibly_ hurt if he took Keith up on having another brownie. Shiro told himself that until he wound up exactly where he is right now: flat on his back, sucking in his stomach for a little extra give, yanking on a fly that didn’t want to close.

Ever so helpfully, Keith scoffs. “Give it up, _Takashi_ ,” he says, likely using Shiro’s given name entirely because he knows how it worms under Shiro’s skin. “You. Have gotten. _Too. **Fat.**_ For your. _Jeans_ — and there’s only one person who you can blame for this, you know that, right? I mean, you said that you _didn’t_ want to gain any more for a little while, so I know I wasn’t picking out your food for you…”

“You’re _exaggerating_!” Shiro grunts, then lets his stomach go again. He only props himself up for a moment so he can scoot back and get his legs onto the mattress with the rest of him. “I’ve got this handled, alright? I hope you’re okay with having humble pie instead of birthday cake.”

Gravity works against him when he’s standing up, but luckily, Shiro knows how exploit it. Maybe it’s not _guaranteed_ to work, but he still bucks his hips and hoists himself up. He shifts the brunt of his weight back onto his shoulders, keeps his feet flat on the mattress to act as a balance. Trying to ignore how the fat lining the insides his thighs yields to gravity and droops, trying to ignore how they huddle up against each other while angling toward the mattress, Shiro readjusts his waistband, in case it’s gotten shifted away from where he wants it. He takes a few deep breaths to steady his nerves so he can get this done. But before he can suck his gut back in again and _properly_ get started—

“God, I should get my phone,” Keith says with an audible sneer. “Maybe if you could _see_ yourself through someone else’s eyes, you’d understand how fucking _huge_ you’ve gotten. What happened to the guy who won, ‘Most Athletic,’ ‘Most Likely to Stay In Shape After Graduation,’ and, ‘Best Butt’ when he finished high school? It’s like he _melted_ , Shiro. A ripped Adonis melted into the flabby, bloated blubber-ball who’s jiggling his way around my bed, trying to squeeze himself into jeans that _he can’t wear anymore_ because he’s simply gotten _way too fucking **fat**_ for them.”

Shiro gasps, not from pain or shock, but from the knot of desire that flares up and twists around inside his belly. Biting on his lip, he tries to focus on sucking in harder and getting the button closed. God, he _cannot_ let himself get hard right now, no matter what Keith’s saying or how much it turns him on. For a moment, it’s all Shiro can do to dig his heels into the comforter and take slow, steady breaths while remembering that they have the entire night ahead of them and Keith worked his ass off to put dinner together, because he knows better than anyone that Shiro is completely hopeless in a kitchen. And part of getting to the rest of the evening? Is getting these _freaking jeans_ done up…

Finally, the button creaks into its hole and Shiro collapses onto the bed. It groans a little, just like the button straining down his waist. But still, he is victorious, even if this means he needs a moment to recover, and even if he can’t let himself breathe too deeply, lest he somehow mess up all of his hard work on the button. Soon enough, they’ll be in the kitchen where they belong, with Shiro stuffing anything and everything into his belly, and Keith telling him when he’s had enough to eat. Next step, Shiro has to _finish_ getting the jeans done up, which means zipping them. Sure, Keith didn’t specify that part, but Shiro _wants_ to do it.

Brushing his fingers over his fly, he finds skin rather than denim. Ugh, so the fabric’s bowing out from the strain his middle’s putting on it, no matter how he’s on his back. Shiro more than has his work cut out for him. Now he _has_ to get the zipper up. Even if Keith lets him have the victory, he won’t feel like he’s really _earned_ it. He’ll feel like Keith’s rewarding him out of pity, giving up a consolation prize because he feels bad that Shiro took so long and worked so hard on doing up his jeans, and hey, his commitment to denying reality is _almost_ a legit accomplishment. But he’ll know better, unless he sucks his stomach in again and forces his zipper up into place.

While Shiro fumbles with the task at hand, Keith pads over and sits at his side. He takes a moment to inspect the sight before him, smiling down at his boyfriend so innocently that Shiro almost lets himself believe it. He arches an eyebrow up at Keith, but doesn’t let his boy distract him. About halfway up, the zipper finally hits a snag and Shiro eases it back down so he can take a moment, then start over. As he’s letting himself breathe, though, he feels Keith starts brushing his fingers along Shiro’s hip. For a moment, it’s a soft, comforting touch. Then, Keith teases at the top of Shiro’s waistband, toying with it like he’s looking for any space where he might be able to weasel his hand into Shiro’s pants.

“Is this totally pointless exercise making you _feel better_ or something, Tubby? Because it’s not proving shit about shit about _anything_ to me. Aside from how you’re a uniquely _stubborn_ shade of fat-ass.” He tries to tug at Shiro’s waistband, but there really isn’t any room to get his fingers in. “Look, I couldn’t even jerk you off in these jeans anymore. How do you seriously expect to wear them during dinner?”

Shiro groans in relief as he gets the zipper up into place. “Exactly like I’d wear anything else I put on,” he says. “I got them on, which means they fit, so they’re a totally viable outfit option.”

“Oh, sure,” Keith blatantly lies. “Until you sit up and lose the button. Which will mean I win.”

“Except that’s not gonna _happen_ , baby, because I _haven’t_ gotten _**fat**_.” The tightness clenching in hard around his middle rather begs to differ, but as long as Shiro doesn’t get too excited, he should be completely fine. All has to do to prove it is sit up.

Sucking in a deep breath and his stomach, Shiro eases himself up onto his elbows. He shuffles back and slowly, feeling the denim grind against his waist with every motion, he manages to sit up. He shoots Keith a smile and a shrug like _There, see, I told you I could do it_ , but Keith doesn’t even break face for a second. He just arches his eyebrow, then looks down at Shiro’s lap. But the jeans are still done up, the button still where it belongs — until Shiro tries to lean forward with a mind to reach for Keith’s shoulder and a soft _rrrrip! pop!_ cuts into the silence harder than his waistband’s digging at his soft, squishy flab. Looking to the spot Keith’s smirking at, Shiro sees the silver button, the one he only just shoved through its hole, down there on the comforter, sitting between his bare feet and glimmering in the lamplight.

The effect is almost instantaneous: without the button as an anchor, Shiro’s belly shoves the zipper aside as though it’s nothing, spilling out of its confines and into Shiro’s lap, while his face and neck flush candy apple red.

On one hand, he appreciates that Keith spares him a verbal, _“I told you so.”_

On the other, though, it’s about ten times worse for him to poke at Shiro’s yielding belly, then stare at it in silence until it makes Shiro’s skin start crawling. God, what must Shiro look like to Keith, right now? He’s eaten well today but never let himself feel full, so he’d have more room for stuffing in Keith’s birthday dinner. Yet, here Shiro sits, with an empty belly so big and bulging that it’s utterly _destroyed_ his favorite jeans. Every time he moves his legs, his chunky thighs threaten to split his seams wide open. No one would ever guess that Shiro was a downright skinny teenager, a mess of lanky gangling limbs like stretched out bubblegum, and enviably slim until two years ago. Shiro’s cheeks flush hotter as he curls in around himself, as though there’s any point in doing so, as if Keith hasn’t seen how hugely _fat_ his boyfriend has allowed himself to get—

A loud snap of the fingers jerks Shiro out of his thoughts and back to the bedroom. He blinks at Keith while Keith slips off the mattress and kneels by the bed. Following when Keith motions for him to come, Shiro scoots over to him, and he’s quiet and cooperative as Keith peels him out of the busted jeans. Disrobing leaves Shiro sitting on the bed in a somewhat snug pair of boxer-briefs and nothing else. Between Shiro’s legs, Keith’s whole face seems to twinkle with unspoken devious ideas. He makes a hungry, throaty, half-growling sort of sound that makes it impossible for Shiro to look him in the eye. Training his eyes on the comforter feels better for a moment, lets Shiro have a moment of pretending that his jeans really did shrink in the wash, until Keith notices his thoughts wandering away. In retaliation, he taps at one of Shiro’s thighs in a simple, easy rhythm. As the flab there wobbles, Shiro can’t make himself look away.

“God _damn_ , Shiro. Yeah, sure, I thought you might be chunking up again, but fuck, you’ve gotten even bigger than I thought. Look at you…” Kneading into Shiro’s flesh, he wolf-whistles like he can’t believe what he’s playing with. It’s meant to sound insulting, just as Keith’s heavy sigh is meant to sound exasperated, but they make a knot twist in Shiro’s stomach while his breath hitches in his throat. “Look at all this extra _fat_ you’ve put on lately. I’d bet your thighs are as thick around as my entire _waist_ now, Shiro… I understand getting like this when you’re gaining weight on purpose. But how could you let yourself balloon so much and _never notice anything_?”

“I am _not_ that fat, okay…” Shiro tries not to mewl. He tries not to let his voice quiver too much when the evening’s so young and dinner still awaits. But he slips a little whine in as he protests, because he knows that it’ll egg Keith on. “Just because my jeans… Maybe they don’t fit but that doesn’t… I _have not_ let myself go that much, I _can’t_ have… I really tried to watch what I was eating this summer and you’re _exaggerating_ ‘cause my thighs are _**not**_ that big…”

Tutting, Keith shakes his head. “Nuh uh, now, don’t be like that… I may not know how much you’ve gained _exactly_ , but…” He curls his fingers around a fold of thigh that’s started dimpling with cellulite, and unceremoniously, Keith shakes it. He smirks when tremors course through the soft flesh and Shiro fails to choke back another whine. “Do us both a favor and knock it off with your denial already. You can’t hide from the facts forever, Shiro, and the fact is that you have _seriously_ blubbered out… Remember when you freaked about putting on those first twenty-five pounds and thought you had to lose it all and then-some? Back when two-fifteen was the biggest you’d ever been and you thought I wanted you back down around one-eighty?”

“I can still do it! I’ll get on a diet tomorrow morning — or tonight! I can start tonight, I can, I’ll cut back on everything, slim down again… And it’ll be _easy_ , okay, because I am _seriously_ not that big! I can get under two-fifty by Thanksgiving, lose another fifteen to twenty before Christmas…” They’re all empty promises, but Shiro nods like he believes him. As if it makes his point, he sucks in his stomach.

“Hey!” Keith smacks Shiro’s side again; even pulled in as tight as he can get it, his flabby belly bounces. Shiro blushes and lets his shoulders sink as something feverish seeps throughout the pit of his stomach. Pinching hard at Shiro’s love-handle, Keith growls, “What’d I _say_ about _denial_ , Tubby? Quit sucking in that gut like you’re actually fooling anybody. I already _know_ you’ve gotten irreparably freaking **_huge_**.”

He says nothing more until Shiro releases his stomach with a heavy sigh. Then, shaking Shiro’s thigh again, Keith tells him, “Look, I don’t regret you being _happy_ since going off your diet, but I _never_ thought you’d let yourself get so fucking _plump_ … And I love you, babe, I mean it, no matter _what_ the number on the scale says…” Something dark flashes across Keith’s eyes as he squeezes hard on Shiro’s flab. “But don’t lie to me like you’re _really_ getting on a diet in the morning and losing all that weight again. We both _know_ how full of crap you are. You’ll probably eat leftover cake for breakfast and wash it down with one of your fat-boy shakes…”

With a sigh, Keith cups his free hand around Shiro’s underbelly, rubbing at it in just the way that Shiro loves best of all. “Anyway, even if you really meant it, which you _don’t_? There’s no way in Hell you’re _ever_ getting back down to one-eighty. Not with thighs like these and an ass this fat…” Huffing, Keith splays his fingers over a swath of Shiro’s belly. He rubs it gently for a moment, then clamps down like he’s hanging onto it for dear freaking life. “You _really_ think you can lose a chunky gut like this? Slim down and get your abs back as if it’s no big deal? Because I’ve seen you treat whole pints of Ben and Jerry’s like they’re single-serving snacks, then whine about still being _hungry_ , soooo…”

He jostles Shiro’s stomach with a faux-angelic smile. “I don’t think this _chubby lil’ tummy’s_ ever going anywhere.”

Keith spits that out with such disdain, it almost hides the notes of awe and admiration that creep into his voice. Despite his commitment to every scene, Keith can never fully hide how much he loves copping feels of Shiro’s bulk or the hungry gleam in his eyes every time he sees Shiro in a too-small t-shirt. But just so Shiro won’t get any ideas about this being over yet, Keith rubs and kneads at his stomach roughly, possessively, almost harsh enough to make Shiro believe Keith means everything he’s said. That possibility makes Shiro’s heartbeat spike, but it also makes his insides twist around themselves with an increasingly unintelligible mess of _need_ , _oh God_ , and _want_. He’s not supposed to get openly demanding, but he wants Keith’s hands all over him, wants Keith to grope every inch of flab that’s on his body, pinch until it hurts, shake his stomach and never let Shiro forget how much he _jiggles_ , all while telling him how soft his body is, how _massive_ …

When Shiro can’t resist and nudges harder into Keith’s hand, the smirk Keith shoots him is knife’s-edge sharp and it makes Shiro’s blush surge back in full effect, spilling down his neck like his belly spills toward his lap.

“God, you don’t have the _slightest_ bit of shame about this, do you? You’re so fat that there’s no way you’re ever getting thin again, never mind reclaiming your washboard abs, and you can’t even be _embarrassed_ about it? Bet I could take you to a buffet and let you cram whatever you want into your chubby face, and you’d _get off_ all the people staring at you while you do it…” He snorts and digs his fingers in hard enough into Shiro’s belly-pudge that it makes him gasp and whine. “You probably wouldn’t even be ashamed if you stuffed your belly so full, you got stuck in the booth and had to wait for me to get your dessert for you…”

Not that it’s the point right now, but Shiro’s fantasized about exactly that scenario. After two years off his diet and experiments with gaining weight on purpose, he isn’t ready to hit a buffet like that. It’s hard enough to let himself go around the gang, even though he knows that he’s safe with his and Keith’s friends, even though they’ve all encouraged Shiro to relax and let himself be happy, even though Lance might well be bigger than Hunk at this point and loves joking that they should make a game out of it, next time Shiro wants to let his boyfriend make him fatter. He spent the family reunion he brought them home for telling Shiro to quit picking like he wasn’t hungry, and refused to let him play the _I’m trying to be polite_ card because there was more than enough food for everybody. Even with all that reassurance and the support he got from Keith, Shiro couldn’t let himself have his fill unless they hid out in a less populated room and/or Lance gorged himself as well, just to make sure Shiro knew it was okay and nobody was gonna judge him or get mad at him for wanting food.

Eating so freely around strangers… No matter how big Shiro’s gotten, that still feels like an unreachable star. Other people’s judgment shouldn’t matter, and he knows that. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling like everybody’s watching on in nauseating disgust if they’re out at the diner and he gets a second strawberry-chocolate milkshake or steals a bite of Keith’s dessert.

Dragging Shiro back out of his own mind, Keith clamps down hard on his chub again. “You’re thinking about that instead of _us_ now, aren’t you? Getting all worked up to thoughts of groaning because you’re too full of food to move, whining that you’re hungry until you sweet-talk me into feeding you dessert, as though your fat ass _needs_ any of those freaking calories…” He twists deeper and harder into Shiro’s flesh, digging in his fingertips until he finally makes Shiro moan instead of whining.

“You’re _unbelievable_ , you know that? So fucking _shameless_ , moaning like you’re getting fucked because I’m telling the truth about what a _blob_ you’re letting yourself become…” He snickers. “No wonder you’ve plumped up so badly, Shiro. No _wonder_ you couldn’t keep yourself from gaining weight in your _adjustment_ period. No fucking _wonder_ that you got so fat, turned into such a _butterball_ as soon as you quit counting calories—”

“ _Have not_ ,” Shiro insists, and tries not to grin as Keith jerks his belly-fat again.

“Oh, really? What d’you call all of this then, huh? Because I call it a _gut_ , Shiro. A big, _**fat**_ , wobbling, flabby gut that you could never lose again, not even if you _wanted_ to…” With a huff, he smacks at Shiro’s belly. He rolls his eyes when the way it shakes makes Shiro gasp and whimper.

“Get over it, Tubby,” Keith sneers. “Then get off your ass already. I won the bet, and I’m not indulging you anymore if you’re gonna space out and deny what’s obvious. Come on, like I could miss how damn _enormous_ you’ve been getting? Get up. Let’s see how much damage you’ve done to yourself _this_ time.”

Without another word, Keith eases himself up to his feet. He slinks toward the bathroom and doesn’t look back, trusting Shiro to follow, which of course he does. The tiles are so cold underneath his feet, they almost feel wet, and Shiro swallows thickly as he glances from the mirror and its full view of how his muffin-top’s pudgy sides droop over the waistband of his shorts, to Keith sitting on the edge of the tub with his legs spread and an expectant smirk lighting up his face, to the floor — or, rather, to his protruding belly, which doesn’t _completely_ block his view of the floor but certainly has a decent start. Looking over at the scale makes Shiro’s shoulders tense up. He gulps as Keith bids him to get on the damn thing, already, because he really doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

Unlike hearing Keith rave about his increasing size and softness, unlike popping buttons or feeling his body jiggle as Keith’s hands rove absolutely everywhere, reading the scale’s display does nothing for Shiro. Keith loves making him weigh in when Shiro feels up for it, loves putting numbers on how big his boyfriend’s getting. Shiro loves to make Keith happy, but exact numbers have never been his thing. At best, he doesn’t get turned on by all those digits that mean next to nothing on their own. At worst, his unresolved insecurities bubble back up to the surface.

Sensing Shiro’s hesitation, or maybe he’s lingering more than he should and it’s obviously visible, Keith sticks out a leg and teases his toes along Shiro’s shin. His expression doesn’t really _soften_ , but he relaxes his face and slouches — not out of any disappointment, but like he’s expecting Shiro to safeword out, trying to remind him that it’s okay to do so without breaking the scene entirely. When Shiro glances at the scale again and hunches in on himself, Keith takes the hint and _groans_ like the exasperation’s absolutely killing him.

“ _Well_? You remember what losing means, don’t you?” Keith drawls, as gently as he ever does while still in-character, cocking his head toward the scale. Shiro doesn’t move, so Keith grabs him by the wrist and yanks him closer. Taking his seat again, Keith rubs both hands up Shiro’s hips. He teases, jostling at every roll of pudge he finds, but never _quite_ sinking in his fingers. “Come on, Tubby. I know you’re too big to keep pace with me while jogging — Hell, I don’t know how you manage to jog in the first place, anymore. You couldn’t even keep up with me at two-sixty-five, I can’t imagine what taking you out for a run would be like now that you’re even bigger… How long would it take before you doubled over in a wheezing mess? Two blocks, maybe? _If_ you even get that far?”

None of that is, strictly speaking, true. Maybe Keith can run faster than Shiro now, but he could do that _before_ Shiro put on any weight. Maybe Shiro gets winded more easily these days, but he works hard to keep up his stamina and he can still last as long as Keith, and sometimes longer. Two blocks wouldn’t even faze him; he jogged for an hour this morning and wasn’t sweating until block five. But _God_ , hearing Keith talk about him like that… Shiro chokes back on a shudder, tries not to get lost in the warmth pooling in his stomach because he’ll get hard in a second if he lets this go to his head too much, and Keith won’t let him get off until after dinner, and who even knows how long they’ll be on that…

Huffing, Keith snaps the elastic waistband of Shiro’s shorts against his flesh, and Shiro has to bite his lip to stay grounded as the impact wobbles through his belly.

“Maybe I _should_ make you come out running with me sometime, though. Maybe it’ll do your big fat ass some good,” Keith tells him, lightly bouncing one of the rolls from Shiro’s muffin-top. “Anyway, it’ll let me keep a better eye on you, since apparently you can’t control yourself when someone sits you around food.” Although he still doesn’t exactly cop a feel, Keith kneads his thumb into Shiro’s chubby side. “I bet having that alone time’s how you put on so much weight this summer, isn’t it? Pretend you’re getting used to your weight, not gaining more of it, but then binge-indulge your sweet tooth and as soon as I’m around to watch you do it?”

Shiro shakes his head, flushing as Keith slides his hand around to the front of his stomach. He wilts as Keith arches an eyebrow at him. “Then explain how you did this to yourself, why don’t you. If you haven’t been gorging yourself like crazy behind my back, then how’d you put on so much weight?” He smirks as if he’s daring Shiro to speak up, knowing good and goddamn well that Shiro has nothing to say for himself right now and even if he did, he probably couldn’t spit it out.

Patting at one of Shiro’s hips, Keith adds, “No, wait, I think you’re right. It doesn’t really matter _how_ this kinda weight gain happened to my hotshot, _former_ lacrosse team captain boyfriend. What matters is what we’re gonna do about it now that you’ve allowed yourself to get so fat. I mean, you’re never gonna get your abs back — with the way _you_ love to eat, losing _any weight at all_ would be a goddamn miracle — but why _don’t_ you come out with me on a run? How’d you like to try that sometime, huh?”

Finally, Keith goes in like he means it, squishing a sizable roll of Shiro’s lower-hanging belly-fat between both hands, pressing it forward and together, so that Shiro’s stomach looks even pudgier. Shiro squeaks and blushes, and Keith smirks like the Big Bad Wolf. “I don’t know, though. I can only imagine what you’d look like while you’re thumping up and down the block, struggling to keep up with me… Maybe you _would_ be better off at home… Can you picture yourself trying to run after letting yourself get like this, Shiro? With this massive gut of yours flopping every which way, and every ounce of your fat jiggling all over like it’s Jell-O in an earthquake?”

Without any hints of softness in his expression, Keith drops Shiro’s tummy and reaches up to cup a hand around some of his chest. When Shiro whimpers, Keith tweaks his nipple and smirks. “God, what about _these_ babies? Trying to run with your chubby tits bobbing up and down, smacking against your belly, probably trying to hit you in the double-chin, since they’re getting so goddamn big and your face is sinking lower and lower by the day… Keep going like you’ve done and you won’t have any neck left by this time next year, it’ll all be thick and soft and fleshed out like the mess you’ve made out of your midsection…”

Keith hums and massages Shiro’s chest again, but keeps talking like he can’t hear all the whining from Shiro’s mouth: “Do you ever look at your tits and take them _seriously_ , Shiro? Like, maybe you’re taking a shower before I get home, minding your business, thinking you’ve put on weight but you cannot have gotten _that_ fat yet… But then you look down and before you can even get off while fondling your big, soft belly? Before you can grab a roll of flab and jerk off while you’re jiggling it? Oh man, you get distracted by those thick and meaty tits…”

From the sharp way Keith inhales, he’s getting close to breaking character. He must realize it too, because he shakes Shiro’s breast harder than he really needs to, and clamps his hand down on it when Shiro _groans_. “Does it remind you of how you _used_ to have those hot-ass, rock-hard, shredded pecs, noticing how your chest looks these days, or is that just me… ‘cause if I don’t think _that_ when I’m looking at your tits? I’m thinking that they look softer than all the pudding you’ve been eating to make them get so big… I just?”

He trails off into an agitated sigh, and for all the right words or the right touch could get Shiro hard right now, he can’t dwell on that right now. Not when Keith’s ducking his head and flushing in a way that looks more cranky than embarrassed. It isn’t even the begrudging look that Keith had after a week of Shiro trying to lose his starter-tum, when he couldn’t look Shiro in the eye while trying to admit that he’d support it if Shiro wanted to diet for himself and it’d make him happy, but if was trying to please his boyfriend, then he could stop right now because his extra twenty-five pounds _really_ turned Keith on. The only things Keith looks right now are _cross_ , and _sullen_ , and _slightly out of sorts_.

But they’ve done this enough times before; by now, Shiro knows what to do about it. Carefully, he brushes Keith’s hair back off his forehead, shows him tenderness instead of being a brat or egging him on. Without saying anything, he tries to tell Keith that it’s okay if he wants to pause for now or even safeword out, drop the berating and the insults, and spend dinner telling Shiro whatever he wants to say, no matter what it is.

Letting go of Shiro’s chest, Keith takes a moment to compose himself. Folds his hands and drops them to the side of the tub while taking deep, slow breaths. Even if they aren’t close to pushing the limits of how much he’s willing to say things like this to Shiro, Keith prefers acts to words and he’s probably wearing a little thin from how much he’s been talking so far tonight. Silently, Shiro shuffles further into Keith’s personal space, leans toward him without demands or making any kind of concrete offer. He makes another squeaking noise as Keith flings his arms around his waist and tugs him in, then sighs as Keith buries his face in the big, soft belly. Petting his hair gets Keith to groan and nuzzle Shiro’s middle more intently, and while he probably won’t admit it later, he drops character just enough to let himself press a trail of gentle, barely-there kisses down one of Shiro’s pale stretch marks.

After a few quiet moments, Keith scratches delicately at one of Shiro’s love handles. He looks up without pulling back that much, giving Shiro a smile that’s mostly besotted but trying so hard to look devious that it makes Shiro smile back.

“If I, _‘red’_ out on being a jerk to you for tonight, can we still have dinner?” he says, apologizing without full on saying that he’s sorry. “‘cause I’m sort of…” He makes a wordless, discontented noise. “But I really did work hard on putting it all together for us, I got new recipes from Hunk and everything. He made the cupcakes himself, though. And the cheesecake, since I’m still not getting how to make those the way you like them best?”

“Any cheesecake is a good cheesecake, Keith. _Especially_ if my baby made it for me.” He smiles, but Keith still looks worried, so Shiro sighs and cards his fingers through Keith’s hair. “Look, for what it’s worth? I don’t feel like you’re being a jerk to me. You did so well tonight, okay? Safewording out doesn’t change that. Knowing your limits and asserting them is a sign of strength.”

Shiro could go on, but trails off into a sigh when Keith mumbles that he isn’t hearing any answers to his questions. “You don’t have to explain anything to me if you don’t want to, Keith. And of course we’re still having dinner, and whatever you wanna put in front of me, I’ll eat. As if I’d ever pass that up, birthday or no. This ass didn’t get so fat from tiny, dressing-less salads and obsessively counting calories, right?”

Chuckling, Shiro ruffles a hand through Keith’s hair. “I actually _did_ kinda watch what I ate today, though. But only so you’d have extra space in my gut for stuffing. Hope you made a lot tonight, ‘cause I feel like I could make a buffet reevaluate their, ‘all you can eat’ price.”

Keith smiles and whispers, _“I love you so much. Also, **Red** ”_ before nuzzling face-first into Shiro’s stomach again.

Shiro gives him another moment before pointing out, “Y’know, I can’t get on the scale with you clinging at me. I mean, I can still lift you pretty easy, so I _probably_ could? But it’d be awkward and together, we might overload it.”

“’s got a five-hundred-pound max-out point, Gorgeous,” Keith mumbles, only turning his face out of Shiro’s belly enough that his words don’t get completely muffled in the chub. “Loose estimate from feeling you up and the times you’ve been on top of me in the past few weeks? But I’m guessing you’re up to, like, two-eighty or two-eighty-five? Something in that range, most likely. Give or take a bit, I don’t know. Add in my one-fifty-two, though? Puts our combined weight range between four-thirty-two and four-thirty-seven. _Maybe_ up to four-forty or so if I’m under-shooting on how much bigger you’ve gotten lately.”

He hums, pressing another kiss into the fleshy dip at Shiro’s waist. “So, we’re a _liiiiiiiittle_ ways off yet, if you really wanna max the scale out together. But y’know, if we were _both_ actively gaining? Then between you getting sexy-chubbier and me getting hella buff, and Lance inviting everybody to come spend Christmas with his family? We could totally make that upper limit our bitch by _your_ birthday. If you want to, I mean.”

“Love it how you make math sound romantic instead of boring.” When Keith snorts incredulously, Shiro nudges at his forehead until he looks up again, so Shiro can look him in the eye while saying, “I mean it. We can talk about maxing out the scale later if you’re still thinking about it. At the moment, though? A certain birthday boy won a certain bet, so he should get to see how much his fat-ass boyfriend weighs now, right? Especially since I’ve been making you wait so long on your birthday, talk about me being _rude_.”

“Mmm, what would you call this, then? Patience yields kinky wish fulfillment?” Keith snickers at his own joke, but doesn’t let Shiro see his dopey, lovestruck smile until Shiro prods at his forehead again.

“Call it whatever you want, Keith,” he says fondly, with a hint of a smirk. “Just look alive, alright? Because I don’t know if I can read the scale on my own… I mean, I didn’t really notice it, but I think I must have put on a pretty good bit of summer weight, now that you mention it? I totally _wrecked_ those jeans when I’m not even _bloated_ and I haven’t eaten anything since _lunch_ …”

He flushes pink at Keith’s snickering. “Okay, so, I had an afternoon snack. But Lance brought some of Hunk’s brownies to the office, the triple-fudge ones with the homemade frosting? But I didn’t really have that _many_ of them—”

“As long as you’re in for dinner, Shiro, you could’ve eaten an entire Häagen-Dazs for all I care.” Keith smiles into another kiss and gently squeezes one of Shiro’s love handles before finally letting go. “Well, no. I’d be kinda let down if you did that and you didn’t let me watch. But I’d get over it because I love you so much. You, and your belly, and your beautiful big, fat ass.”

Affectionately, Shiro rolls his eyes before turning toward the scale. “Gosh, Keith, you always say the sweetest things…”

There are so many possible retorts that Keith could offer up. Snarky ones, half-taunting ones, impatient ones, ones that are the verbal equivalent of cuddling, no matter how much he insists that Shiro has always been the biggest dweeb he’s ever met in his life, even before he gave up dieting. But in the end, all Keith does is give Shiro his best set of silent, pleading puppy eyes ’til Shiro fixes his gaze on the ceiling, holds a deep breath, and steps up on the scale. Scrambling closer to Shiro’s side, Keith nearly knocks himself off the edge of the tub, but he makes it over to where he can actually read the scale for them. Shiro palms at his muffin-top absentmindedly, waiting for Keith to tell him what the damage is.

Instead, Keith gasps softly, almost inaudibly. After a moment of half-baked, stuttering syllables, he asks Shiro to get off the scale and then back on, just in case Keith’s misreading the display. When Shiro obliges him, Keith whistles, low and impressed, but doesn’t explain himself on _why_. When Shiro glances down at his face, he finds his boyfriend flushing scarlet, with a wide-eyed, flustered, and slightly guilty expression like he didn’t knock again and walked in on Hunk fucking Lance into the mattress. Shiro has to prod before Keith remembers he’s supposed to be reporting something. Even then, he slouches and braces himself, resting both palms on the edge of the tub, drumming his fingers, and pointedly avoiding eye contact with Shiro. Like he’s actually embarrassed, even though he’s not the one who’s gotten fat.

“It’s, uh… I mean, I can’t say I didn’t guess that you’d… After all the build-up, right? It’s pretty obvious I figured you’d gained weight again, but not like?” With the way Keith’s nibbling on his lip, and after he’s already been more verbal than he ever does for anyone but Shiro, it must be taking superhuman effort for him to get the words out. Still, like a man on a mission, he keeps spluttering, “This, though? Way more than I ever would’ve, like? My guess was just a guess, y’know? Even with the busted jeans, I didn’t think you’d gotten _quite_ so… erm?”

Keith’s whole face is brilliant red, and he doesn’t look at Shiro ’til Shiro reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. He nods when Shiro tells him to just spit it out, because he’s a big boy, Keith — a _very_ big boy, apparently — and he can take it.

But Keith’s still doing a convincing impression of a deer in someone’s headlights as he says, “Two-ninety- _seven_. And then another half on top of that. Scale says that you’re up to two-hundred-ninety-seven- _and-a-half_ pounds, Shiro.”

For a moment, “Erm? _Oh_ ,” is the only thing that Shiro manages to say.

Blushing, he gently jiggles his own belly-fat and adds on, “Well, uh? I guess that explains a lot?”

“Yeah, ya _think_?” Keith’s cheeks were calming down, but as he realizes what he’s said, they start going pink again. “Not that it doesn’t look _amazing_ on you, though, because holy _shit, **Shiro**_ , you’re fucking _gorgeous_ , but like…” Trailing off into a confused but eager-sounding noise, Keith shrugs, then wolf-whistles again. He grins bashfully as he says, “I mean, just… _wow_ , I guess _that’s_ why you’ve been kinda, or that getting underneath of you has been, like? It’s just? You’re _really_ getting big now, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I am, aren’t I…” Even if numbers don’t have the same effect on him that they do on Keith, Shiro can’t deny that this one’s pretty staggering. “But that’s thirty-two pounds I’ve gained since _June_ —”

“And a half!” Keith corrects him, his whole face lighting up at the thought of that extra little bit of mass. “You’re up thirty-two- _and-a-half_ pounds since June… third, I think? Which was twenty weeks from now, which means…” Pausing for his mental math, Keith glances at the ceiling and ticks off _something_ on his fingers. He’s beaming at Shiro as he says, “On average? You just gained a little over a pound-and-a-half _every week_. A pound and five-eighths, if you wanna split hairs. And you weren’t even _trying_ to put on any extra weight, can you _believe_ that, Shiro?”

“Well, it helps to have a boyfriend who can’t help it that he loves to feed me.” A fond smile, but it’s soon undercut by a troublesome realization: “Keith, we missed the hundred-pound gain milestone! I’m up a hundred-seven-and-a-half now, right, which means we completely missed it. You wanted to do something _special_ but I wasn’t keeping tabs, adjustment period or not, and I’m so, _so_ sorry that we missed it, Keith, I can—”

“Oh my _God_ , Shiro, I don’t care about missing it, okay?” There’s no way that Keith is lying either, nor with that starry-eyed expression on his face. “Yeah, doing something extra-special after helping you get there would’ve been _nice_ , but? Being with you is my cheesecake. Anything else just the chocolate ganache and strawberry drizzle. I love it, right, but the cake-slash- _you_ would still be fine without it.” He reaches up, gently sinking his fingers into Shiro’s hip. “Anyway, we’ve got tonight… That’s a _perfect_ way to celebrate, if you ask—”

_Brrrnnnnnnnz!_ Keith drops his hand at the sound of the buzzer telling them that someone’s calling up to their apartment. He looks as startled and bemused as Shiro feels, but unlike Shiro, Keith gasps about, _“Shit, right! The pizza!”_

“The _pizza_?” Shiro doesn’t mean to blurt it out quite so bluntly, but he can’t take it back. “Uh, how big _is_ this dinner, exactly?”

“Not _that_ much…” Keith’s shifty eyes and the faux-guilty smirk twisting up his lips suggest otherwise, though, no matter how adorable he is when he thinks he’s being subtle (or knows he isn’t but wants to play like he is). “More than _usual_ , I guess, but it is my birthday party, and you’re hungry enough to clean out a whole buffet yourself, _right_?”

Shrugging, Keith doesn’t wait for Shiro’s answer. He rises to his feet and slips his arms around Shiro’s waist as though he _isn’t_ having increasing difficulty getting them all the way around his boyfriend. He nudges Shiro down just enough to nuzzle at his double-chin while saying, “I’ll be right back, okay? Put on something comfortable and meet me by the food. Bonus points if you make the outfit extra-cute for me.”

Shiro kisses his forehead. “What about how it fits me, though? D’you still want the buttons to—”

“If you wanna pop them off for me, I’d love that.” Leaning up, Keith steals a gentle kiss and sucks on Shiro’s lip. “But if busting up your favorite jeans was enough for one night, then that’s fine, too. _Prefer_ no sweatpants, but…” He squeezes one of Shiro’s back-rolls and somehow manages to smile innocently. “As long as I get to stuff you like a Build-A-Bear, I’m getting everything I want.”

For all he snickers at his own analogy, Keith doesn’t give Shiro a chance to question it. He gropes at Shiro’s ass two-handedly, gripping on tight enough to make Shiro squeak again. He presses his abs into Shiro’s stomach and grinds their hips together, hard enough to tease but not for long enough to really make good on that. Then, with one last kiss for now, he heads out, leaving Shiro with a cold feeling along his front, something hot and lustful and unsatisfied coursing through his belly, the desire to get Keith’s hands all over him again, preferably as soon as possible, and a sinking feeling like any pants he chooses will be uncomfortably tight around the crotch long before he’s close to popping off any buttons.

*** * ***

Despite knowing that it won’t take Keith forever to go downstairs and grab the pizza, Shiro allows himself to linger in front of the bathroom mirror, palming and pinching at his belly and his sides, trying to feel out exactly where these new thirty-two-and-a-half pounds have gone. Picking out his clothes, he wonders whether his thighs are _really_ rubbing closer together, only failing to chafe each other’s dimples because Shiro’s boxer-briefs get in the way, or if he’s imagining that because after getting on the scale, he can’t deny that he’s bigger than ever.

The jeans he picks out mostly fit him fine, though they _do_ feel a little snug — more so than Shiro likes, considering that these were some of his, _“extra-fat day pants”_ back around 265 — and as he buttons up his body-hugging shirt, he smirks at the thought of what Keith might have to say about it. In a concession to vanity, Shiro gives his reflection more attention than might be necessary before padding out to the kitchen. He could probably wear this out on a public date with Keith, or maybe to a party. Sure, the shirt strains a bit around his generous middle, but so do most things. The view that the shirt offers of his chest is an outline or a hint, at best. That’s more of a view than Shiro prefers, but as far as tight shirts go, this one’s hardly obscene or unwearable.

Hoping to keep it from bunching up too much, Shiro tugs at the fabric as he shuffles down the corridor. Try as he might, he can’t shake the thoughts of what might happen if he wore this out of the apartment. The gang would look at this outfit as a sign of how Shiro’s getting bigger, especially if Allura or Hunk overheard Keith whispering in Shiro’s ear about how _sinfully delicious_ he is with those buttons working so hard to stay in their holes and his top looking like it’s been painted on. He’d _definitely_ get called out for how much he’s been chunking out if Pidge or Lance had any convenient “before” pics they could pull up to turn into a game of, “spot the differences and loudly spell them out for Shiro, Keith, and indeed, everyone in a five-mile radius” (and considering how much those two love documenting everything, at least one of them would do this).

Seeing him for the first time, though, most people might not guess that Shiro’s put on any extra weight recently. As far as they know, he’s always been this heavy, and he’s so confident in his plush, and soft, and plumped up body that he doesn’t mind showing his girth off a little. Shiro doesn’t think he’d mind living up to strangers’ expectations in that scenario, but when he hits the kitchen, he can’t think about anything but food.

It’s not his fault, though. Simply glancing around at how Keith’s version of, _“Not that much”_ makes Shiro gulp from the sheer quantity of food before him. The Teriyaki chicken smell wafts off an oversized serving plate of wings, sitting in the middle of the table. To its left is a tray of enchiladas, maybe not as many as Hunk would’ve made but _definitely_ more than Shiro would eat in one sitting on any normal day, even if he were bored and spaced out and mindlessly chowing down on whatever someone put within arm’s length of him. On the wings’ right side is a lasagna that Shiro recognizes as having been made with another recipe of Hunk’s; under the covering of cheese and marinara, the casserole is exceptionally thick, at least five layers stuffed to the brim with a mix of vegetables, marinated beef and sausage, and in Hunk’s words, _“As much cheese as you can squeeze between the pasta sheets without compromising your culinary standards.”_

Another serving platter sits downwind from the rest of the table’s contents, loaded with pierogis from the little family-owned Polish place a few blocks away. Without a guide or Keith telling him which dumplings are which flavors, Shiro can only rely on what he knows about the both of them and their respective tastes. It’s better than nothing, but ultimately, it’s only guesswork. Given his own druthers, Keith’s partial to the ones with sausage and garlic, the ones with pulled pork and mushrooms, and the ones stuffed with potato and cheddar cheese. Shiro, on the other hand, wouldn’t turn down any of Keith’s but he prefers the one made with spinach and goat cheese, which are delicious but Keith calls them, _“too pretentious to be worth the taste.”_ He’s claimed more than once that he only ever puts up with them because Shiro, _“moans so fucking pretty”_ when he’s popping them into his mouth. They disagree more strenuously on the sauerkraut and mushroom ones, to the point that, if Keith ever gets in the mood for them, Shiro won’t kiss him ’til he’s scrubbed the vinegary, stale white wine aftertaste out of his mouth.

But both of them love the ones with farmer’s cheese, the ones that offer up a perfect mix of savory and slightly sweet. Shiro might’ve never tried them, without Keith’s influence, without his dedicated prodding about adventurousness this and Shiro letting himself go that and _Come on, babe, why would I lie about them tasting good_. Whichever other flavors Keith picked out, Shiro would bet anything that he got some of those.

The table alone has more than enough food to get Shiro blushing, to make him rest his palm on the crest of his belly and wonder what he’ll look like in the morning — but that’s only the beginning. The kitchen counters are practically overflowing, too. They’re so overloaded that, for all Shiro knows he _could_ look at them closely without steadying his nerves, he really doesn’t want to try it. He glances at the door, and since Keith’s still not back yet, Shiro snatches a pierogi. On second thought, he takes another one with him to inspect the rest of what Keith’s left out. Yeah, Shiro doesn’t want to indulge too much before a stuffing when Keith isn’t here to watch — that’d be pretty rude of him even if it weren’t Keith’s birthday — but with how little Shiro’s eaten today, two pierogis isn't _really_ a big deal.

Chomping into one of them, Shiro smiles and chokes down a moan at the taste of farmer’s cheese, at the feeling of all the soft curds against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He has to finish eating it before he can even think about looking more closely at the counter. First thing he spots there is a pan of baked macaroni and cheese, one of Keith’s staple dishes because he knows how to cram in even more calories than recipe already has and he _knows_ that Shiro will almost always be in the right mood to eat his fill of it and then-some. If he’s ever not in the right mood, then he can get there from just the smell of Keith’s savory, cheese-drenched handiwork.

Next, Shiro peeks into the styrofoam take-out containers sitting between the refrigerator and the microwave. When he spots the pork pot-stickers in the first one that he opens, his mouth waters and his stomach growls as if he skipped every meal after breakfast. There’s got to be at least two orders of that appetizer here, probably more like three or even four, and Shiro’s itching to dig into them right now. Sure, Keith likes the so-called, “Asian fusion barbecue” place uptown that makes these things more than Shiro does — it’s a decent place and Shiro doesn’t mind it, but it’s also not his favorite and it’s part of a regional chain, when he prefers eating local as often as they can — but God, Keith knows his boyfriend’s tastes so very well. He knows _exactly_ what to order when he wants to bring out Shiro’s so-called, “deeply buried inner glutton.”

_Of course he knows what you like eating, idiot. Do you think you’d have ever put on this much weight if Keith **didn’t** pay attention to which foods can make you cut loose easier? Besides, he prides himself on pleasing you as much as you love pleasing him_ — Shiro muses to himself in silence, wiping one hand’s fingers off on a dishtowel before jostling his belly-flab again. Even if this shirt ends up ruined tonight, which it’s probably going to from the look of the spread before him, Shiro just can’t let himself get grease stains on it.

As he bites into pierogi number two (potato and cheddar; definitely worth a warm, contented sigh), Shiro makes himself look down to watch his chubby stomach bobbing up and down with every motion of his hand. Partly, it’s his standard self-indulgence, boredom leading to playing with his fat because it’s soft, and it’s warm, and there’s something so inexplicably calming about how it feels in Shiro’s fingers. But on the other hand, watching it jiggle reminds Shiro that he’s quickly closing in on the point where, _“getting big”_ might at best be an overly polite understatement, if he hasn’t crossed that bridge already, and he wouldn’t have ballooned so much without Keith.

In the other containers, Shiro finds: the fusion barbecue’s fried rice (easily one of the things that they do best, and he can tell Keith ordered extra egg in it for him); their so-called, “gourmet stir-fry with ramen noodles” (which is best with shrimp, and that’s the way Keith got it, but the phrase, “gourmet ramen” still conjures too many memories of Shiro’s dorm-mates in undergrad setting off the fire alarm with cup noodles, or making stovetop ramen and dumping ketchup on it); and three heaping orders from Shiro’s favorite Thai place, Pad Thai and Pad See Ew with chicken, and Keith’s peanut curry with beef, each one smelling more like the chili peppers they use for spice than the one that Shiro sniffs before it. If he knows anything about Keith, Shiro can guess at the ulterior motive for getting those dishes so hot: sure, both of them like spices on their own merits, but letting Shiro’s mouth get hot also gives Keith a free excuse to give Shiro milk for the extra liquid calories.

Peeping in the fridge says that Shiro’s right. There’s a quart of whole milk sitting next to their usual gallon of two-percent. He smiles at Keith’s predictable little habits and closes the door with the intent to survey the desserts on the other counter (the strawberry-chocolate cheesecake and mixed cupcakes from Hunk, the Devil’s food fudge cake that Keith’s wanted to try out making since he found the recipe in August, what looks like a tray of brownies) — but Shiro freezes when he sees Keith standing opposite him with two large pizza boxes in hand. He grins and gives Keith a shrug like, _What? I wasn’t up to anything_ , but his cheeks twinge pink as Keith arches an eyebrow at the half-eaten pierogi in Shiro’s hand. Keith rolls his eyes at Shiro’s explanation for himself and smirks when Shiro shoves the dumpling past his lips, but Keith says nothing while elbowing a few things aside and adding the pies to the collection of food on the counter.

Once his hands are free, he crowds in on his boyfriend and nudges Shiro back into the fridge. “You’re such a fucking _fatty_ ,” he says as if he’s whispering _I love you_ , pressing into Shiro’s stomach and soft chest, rubbing all over him again but cautiously avoiding Shiro’s buttons, reaching up to brush his hands through Shiro’s hair and over his chubby cheeks. “You know black is only slimming when the shirt actually fits you, right?”

“Knew you’d say that.” Smiling, Shiro snakes an arm around Keith’s waist, nudging him further into the soft flesh. He feels so much bigger with Keith’s slender body up against him, and in an attempt to quiet the desire twisting around his insides (or at least distract himself for now), Shiro steals a kiss. He means to keep it simple, but Keith slips a hand behind his neck and pushes him further into it, eases Shiro’s mouth open with his tongue, throws himself into kissing Shiro like he might literally die without it.

When Keith decides he needs to breathe, Shiro recovers first. “But seriously, you outdid yourself on dinner. You have to know that, right? We’re gonna be eating these leftovers for a week.”

“I’m not expecting you to finish it all _tonight_ , but God, I _hope_ you don’t let them last that long. I might start worrying I didn’t get your favorites right. Or worse, like I didn’t make things tasty enough for you…” He leans up to nose at Shiro’s cheek. “Anyway, I knew you’d probably been putting on weight, but I didn’t know how much, or if maybe I was just imagining things ‘cause I _wanted_ more of you to love, and you _always_ overshoot or underestimate how much you’re gonna want in any given stuffing, so?”

Shrugging, he kneads his hips harder into Shiro’s and smirks when he makes Shiro whine. “I had to do some guesswork for us.”

Shiro smacks his ass in playful retaliation. “You really _are_ gonna have a boyfriend who’s twice your size, if you’re not careful, Pretty Boy. Probably before Christmas, at this rate.”

“God, don’t _tease_ me like that, you beautiful _fuckhead_ …” From the sound of it, Keith’s trying to groan. But despite his efforts, his voice comes out in a whine instead. Between that and the needy way he moves his hips, Keith’s either testing his own patience or going the long way around flirting in a way that makes Shiro more indulgent with him than usual. Or maybe it’s a bit of both. Whatever his game is, Keith grinds _ever-so-slowly_ on Shiro’s crotch while mewling, “It’s so _mean_ to say shit like that to me and not make good on it, _Takashi_. It’s borderline _cruel_ , actually.”

“How do you _know_ I won’t make good on it?” Shiro huffs and cops a better feel of Keith’s ass, which _does_ feel thicker in his palm, now that Shiro thinks about it and knows Keith’s summer bulking actually paid off. “I wasn’t even gaining on purpose this summer and I put on more than _twice_ the weight that you did. I figure three-hundred can’t be too far off… Once that’s behind us, it’s only a matter of time, right?”

Inhaling sharply, Keith maneuvers one of his legs between Shiro’s, works his lean, taut muscle into Shiro’s yielding flab and then against his groin. “Not unless I get a few extra pounds from this week too,” he points out, struggling to keep his voice even as he nuzzles Shiro’s shoulder and keeps grinding on his lower regions. “And as much as I’d be all about you getting even bigger to keep up with me? I’m gonna have to add extra ab days for a _month_ , at least, or I’m gonna end up with a tummy.”

“Well, if you _did_ , you’d have the cutest tummy ever in recorded history…”

It’s easier to tease Keith, knowing that he doesn’t care that much about his weight. Unlike the way that Shiro used to be, Keith is more preemptively frustrated because he _has_ worked hard to get his abs, and while he has no point of reference for how he’d feel about getting a little pudgy, he’s found that he rather enjoys having more visible muscles. According to him, it’s loads better than looking weaker than he is and being constantly underestimated, or the constant refrain of, _“God, eat a cheeseburger, you skinny bitch,”_ and how it dogged him even though the gang gets an extra order of onion rings when they go out together because Keith will always polish off a whole stack of them by himself, even when he isn’t bulking. Still, though, just in case he’s at risk of hitting a nerve or tripping the wrong wire and making his boyfriend feel insecure, Shiro eases Keith up by the chin and gives him a deep but undemanding kiss.

“Or we could work out some kinda trade,” he says and butts his forehead into Keith’s. “Every ten reps you do of anything, I eat another brownie. Every twenty reps, I eat a cupcake. You work your core or whatever you want for some arbitrary time limit, I eat a slice of cake with all the fixin’s. Beat your personal best on crunches and I’ll have pint of Ben and Jerry’s…” He smiles, pecking at the corner of Keith’s mouth. “Sound good?”

“Mmm, we can negotiate specifics in the morning.” Snickering, Keith nudges his forehead back at Shiro’s. He’s trying to smirk, but his expression is so warm, so soft, Keith might as well be surrounded by a rain of falling cartoon hearts. “Come on, Fat-Ass. You’ve already kept me waiting _more_ than long enough, and you’re _never_ gonna hit three-hundred from standing here and sweet-talking me all fucking night.”

Shiro’s first thought is how Keith means to stuff him properly when there’s barely any room on the table, but Keith clears it up easily when he bids Shiro to get a couple Cokes and go sit on the couch. Apparently, he means to go in even harder than Shiro guessed, and he doesn’t want Shiro to deal with the discomfort that can come from being filled to the brim in one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs. When Keith joins him, with napkins, two plates, and two sets of silverware in hand, Shiro’s in a mostly comfortable position, leaning back into a plush corner, nudging his back between the cushion and the armrest. He’s adjusting his jeans, tugging the waistband up a little higher, but Shiro only shrugs at Keith’s playfully arched eyebrow. Snug as they are, his pants aren’t remotely uncomfortable yet. Shiro just wants to drag things out as much as he can before he busts another pair wide open. His baby wanted teasing, after all.

He doesn’t need to guess which of them gets which of Keith’s plates. The one in his left hand is hardly _empty_ , but there’s definitely some free space amidst the peanut curry, the mac and cheese, and the three pierogis. It a slice of lasagna that Shiro could clean up in ninety seconds easy, if he wanted. There’s less macaroni, too, which makes sense, considering how much butter and excess cheese Keith uses to make it.

The plate in Keith’s right hand, though, is the bigger of the two _and_ from the look of things, it’s filled to its absolute limit, with the selections all touching, nearly mushing together, probably so Keith could squeeze more in. The Pad Thai brushes against the small mountain of macaroni, which in turn encroaches on the lasagna. Three chicken wings and a huge slice of pizza sit atop of the macaroni, the latter drenched in extra cheese with at least red onions and three kinds of meat, as far as Shiro can tell. There are probably more toppings hidden from Shiro’s view, which is equal parts intriguing and nerve-wracking. Confounding him further, the pierogis and pot-stickers are stacked on each other in a way that keeps Shiro from eyeballing how many there really are from any angle, not even when Keith hands him the plate.

“You’re gonna need to get through at _least_ three more spreads just like that one if you wanna get dessert,” Keith tells him, sitting by the other armrest and easing his bare feet into Shiro’s lap. “And don’t rush it when you try the enchiladas. Hunk’s trying to tweak his recipe a little, really get it right for the chicken. I promised that you’d give some _useful_ feedback since I guess _Lance_ is only capable of moaning about how they’re like a culinary orgasm and they taste better than sex feels and he wants more.”

Shiro can’t help snorting at the mental image of Lance flopped out at his and Hunk’s kitchen table, with his pudgy stomach stuffed taut with his boyfriend’s cooking, whining for more enchiladas and a blow-job — but Keith gently kicks at his thigh before Shiro gets too lost in anything.

“What’s your safeword, Tubby?” he says, forking a sizable clump of cheese and noodles into his mouth. “You’re gonna need it, if you wanna unbutton anything before you bust it clean off your sexy gut.”

“It’s still, _‘black,’_ ” he says, spearing a pierogi. Once he’s scarfed it down, he adds, “And yours is…?”

“ _‘Red,’_ ” Keith confirms. He smirks affectionately, then huffs and nods at Shiro’s plate. “Now, eat up. I didn’t bust my ass putting all of this together just so you could _not_ eat your freaking dinner.”

“Love you too,” Shiro says, and crams a whole pot-sticker in his mouth. With it swallowed, he grins and squeezes Keith’s ankle. “But fret not. These buttons are only coming undone if they pop.”

“Quit bragging and eat,” Keith tells him, butting his heel into Shiro’s thigh again. “But also, if your clothes hang on too long and I start feeling secondhand uncomfortable from looking at you? I reserve the right to unbutton things so you look like my _boyfriend_ , not a human sausage.”

Shiro has a mouthful of lasagna while waiting for Keith to take a sip of his Coke, then tells him with a shrug, “Fair. There’s enough _sausage_ waiting for you in these jeans without me looking like one, too.”

The startled noise Keith makes is worth the fact that he doesn’t do a spit-take. His cherry red blush and wide eyed _I cannot even believe you_ expression are more than worth how hard he kicks at Shiro’s thigh. Sighing in exasperation, Keith says, “You’re the _worst_. I love you, but you are the _**worst**_. Now quit stalling and fucking _eat_ already.”

Grousing aside, Keith snickers into his peanut curry. Once he’s done, Shiro catches his eye and shoves another whole pot-sticker past his lips.

Even though they haven’t had a proper stuffing session since the last night before his so-called adjustment period started, Shiro easily slips into the old familiar rhythm. There’s a balance that he has to strike, nestled perfectly between savoring how good the food tastes, wolfing it down too quickly to think about how much he’s eating, and chewing enough to trick his belly into thinking that he has more space to fill.

The last part sounds weird enough to merit questioning, or so Keith said when Shiro first explained this tactic to him. But strange or not, it’s one of the best things that Shiro’s ever gotten from his old diet. Back then, chewing slowly and thoroughly was part of how he made himself think he’d satisfied his hunger; it let him eat but taking things so slowly made him really register how much he felt like he was eating, made him feel fuller, sooner, even when he wasn’t. At the time, Shiro hated when some well-meaning friend — usually Keith or Lance, but sometimes Allura and sometimes Pidge — pointed out how long he took at meals, because he couldn’t think of any way to say, _“I’m focused and so careful about chewing because taking my time makes counting calories about ten times easier”_ that wasn’t full of probably-valid reasons for concern.

Now, though, that old trick is about easing digestion and fooling his stomach in a different way. The more something gets chewed, the less space it takes up inside of Shiro’s gut, and the more time the enzymes in saliva have to work their magic. Ultimately, that can take off some of the pressure that builds up during a stuffing, when he’s pushing his stomach to its limit and beyond, trying to cram as much food into himself as he can get away with. Yeah, it’s a difficult balance to maintain, because if Shiro takes _too_ long on chewing, then he might start feeling full before he’s remotely ready to stop — but it works when he does it right, and it works best when Shiro lets go, lets himself trust his body and his feelings.

Of course, letting go is always easier said than done, but with the spread that Keith picked out and with Keith sitting there and watching him, Shiro can get into it, map out his plans and then attack. The pizza disappears first and fastest, not because he wants it the most but so that he won’t need to worry about balancing it anymore. Next goes the lasagna because Shiro needs the space that it takes up on his plate. With it out of the way, Shiro nudges the wings off of his macaroni, but on second thought, decides to finish up the pot-stickers and pierogis while he’s still in a state of fevered rush, too consumed with the drive to eat them to bother counting how many there are or even focusing too much on the flavors. While he doesn’t completely space out, he’s still caught off guard at the little gasp Keith gives him or the dig of heel against his thigh as he swallows the last pierogi (a farmer’s cheese one, to his delight).

Slowing down has risks, but Shiro smirks at Keith before digging into the macaroni, taking his time so he can moan while sucking the noodles off his fork. Something flashes across Keith’s eyes at that noise, so Shiro gives him even more of a treat. He slouches further into the sofa cushions, not to accommodate his belly or its fullness — they’re still too early into things for that — but so he can spread his legs while making a series of breathy, whimpering noises with every bite that he takes and hopefully make his stomach more obvious when he pauses to sneak in a rub, all the better to give Keith the teasing sort of show he wanted.

Is any of this _necessary_? No, not really. There are other ways to give Keith a show while stuffing and if anything, Shiro’s wasting time by carrying on like that. But it does make Keith dig his heel harder into Shiro’s thigh, and when he scrapes up the last bits of cheese, he definitely hears Keith whine. He has to sit up properly again for the teriyaki wings, so he can set his plate down on his lap and eat them with his hands.

Which just leaves the issue of the Pad Thai and the spice that Keith got on this order. While his hands are free, Shiro helps himself to a long sip of his Coke and presses his hand into his belly. There’s still far more squish to it than not, which means he’s barely getting started. It’s not _quite_ as staggering a thought of how close he is to hitting three-hundred pounds, but at Keith’s last birthday, after a plate as full as this, Shiro would’ve needed to pause for an actual tummy-rub, letting Keith massage the tightest, tautest parts of his stomach until he felt like he could keep on eating. Now, the only thing giving him pause is the spice and not knowing how much Keith actually ordered — which isn’t even a _bad_ thing, because the spice is part of the experience and Pad Thai tastes _weird_ without it. But adding Coke on top of extra-spicy Thai food isn’t quite as helpful as the chill of the soda has misled Shiro into thinking more than once.

Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Keith bats his toes against Shiro’s knee and asks how he’s holding up, because he’s doing well but there’s more work to do if Shiro actually expects to have any of that cheesecake. Anyway, Keith can’t go get seconds before Shiro’s ready for them, and he _really_ wants to try (his version of) Hunk’s enchiladas, so he’d take it as a kindness if Shiro hurried up. Glancing over at his boyfriend, Shiro sees Keith’s empty plate resting on his lean thighs, and that’s all the impetus he needs. True, it’s not a _challenge_ — Keith had less food than Shiro did to start with and they aren’t racing like Lance has more than once tried to make Shiro do with him — but it makes Shiro pick up his plate again. He all but inhales the Pad Thai, anxiety over the amount of spice entirely forgotten.

—Until he’s handing his plate to Keith and any flavor lingering in his mouth gets drowned out by the feeling that _everything is on freaking fire_.

A belch comes up and brings back even more of the spice, raking it over Shiro’s throat before dumping it onto his tongue. As Shiro takes deep breaths in through his mouth, Keith makes a noise that’s about halfway between cooing over the pain and tutting at his boyfriend for ignoring the perfectly obvious solution. He kisses Shiro’s forehead as he shoves the Coke into his hands, then tells him to drink and takes the plate. Shiro does, because imperfect help is better than no help at all, but he sighs in relief when Keith returns with a glass of milk. A rather sizable one, sure, but Keith nestles up against Shiro’s side once he hands it over, leaning into Shiro’s shoulder and tracing circles around the swell of his stomach. Keith dodges the buttons and doesn’t press particularly hard, just pets his boyfriend’s tummy, simply for the sake of doing it.

“You are _unbelievable_ ,” Keith says so easily that he _can’t_ expect Shiro to believe he has no idea what he’s doing, teasing his fingers along Shiro’s stomach like this, nudging them into Shiro’s pudge but refusing to really, _truly_ rub at anything. “You knew that was going to be spicy. You shouldn’t’ve eaten it so fast.”

Not that Shiro disagrees, because he _doesn’t_. But at the moment, he’s also not saying anything, not when he needs to chug the cool, rich milk as quickly as possible so that his mouth won’t be _totally on freaking fire_. While he’s drinking, Keith nuzzles at his neck, and as he comes down to the end of the glass, Keith splays his hand over the swell of Shiro’s gut. Languidly, he jostles his boyfriend’s fat like a kitten playing with a piece of strong, wearing an expression that’s an even mix of curious and pretending-to-be-bored. Pressing his palm into the flesh makes Shiro belch again and flush bright red, and Keith’s eyes glint so deviously that it makes Shiro want to kiss him so hard, his lips get bruised.

“Ready for more?” Keith says, squeezing on Shiro’s belly-fat for no apparent reason beyond copping a feel. He nuzzles at Shiro’s cheek and adds, “You’re doing really well so far. Long way to go yet before you get dessert — you’re still soft and your buttons aren’t even straining yet — but…” He dips his hand down to caress Shiro’s underbelly through his jeans, still not really rubbing. “You’re doing amazing, and I love you.”

Nodding, Shiro kisses Keith’s forehead. “I love you too, you big nerd.”

“Says the man with a _Star Trek_ tramp stamp,” Keith points out with a sharp pinch to Shiro’s muffin-top.

Which doesn’t stop him from going to the kitchen, or from bringing Shiro a new can of Coke and another filled-up plate when he returns. He has to go back for his own round of seconds, but that gives Shiro a chance to take a deep whiff of the enchiladas that take up the most space on the plate, buried under enough sauce and cheese that he can’t get a decent fix on how many of them Keith brought for him. Another helping of the mac and cheese takes up the second-most space on the plate, and although Keith skipped any of the Thai for now, he piled up pot-stickers and pierogis around the edges of the plate, and stuck a few more in the sauce around the enchiladas. Shiro can actually count them, this time: Keith gave him another six of each, and waiting for him to get back again would be _polite_ , but Shiro is seriously tempted not to.

Luckily, Keith isn’t gone for very long. His plate is even less filled up than his first one, and as he puts his feet back in Shiro’s lap, it takes a moment to remember that, _Oh, right, most people don’t eat as much when they take seconds of anything, most people aren’t stuffing themselves on purpose when they do that_. Arching an expectant eyebrow at Shiro, Keith flicks his tongue out around his forkful of macaroni, and the overall effect is like he’s demanding to know what the Hell Shiro thinks he's waiting for — which is all the inspiration Shiro needs to dig back in.

At first, plate number two doesn’t go any slower than the first one did. Shiro plows through the macaroni and cheese, punctuating every few bites with the first dumpling that found its way onto his fork. By the time he’s ready to try the enchiladas, Shiro casts a quick glance toward the other end of the couch and feels his cheeks twinge pink. Keith’s plate still has about half of the food that he brought back with him. While Shiro hasn’t cleaned up the same relative amount, he has almost definitely eaten more than his boyfriend has since Keith sat down with their seconds.

It makes Shiro swallow thickly and slouch, which doesn’t make him feel any smaller — not with his soft chest rubbing into the top of his stomach and his gut pooching out toward his lap. But then, Keith looks up and smiles at him, and the soft admiration lighting up his face makes Shiro want to dive back into scarfing everything down as quickly as he can.

Except that Keith promised Hunk some feedback on the enchiladas, which is something Shiro can get behind, and so he tries to take it slow. Shiro even pauses for a deep breath, holding his plate up closer to his mouth so that there’s less of a chance that he’ll make a mess on his shirt, inhaling the heady scent of his next conquest. He expects resistance, trying to slice through the tortilla, cheese, and chicken without a knife, but instead, the enchiladas yield without a fight and fall onto his fork as if they’re _longing_ to be devoured. That’s almost too much pressure to live up to — yeah, it’s ridiculous, but feeling like there are expectations he could fail to meet still makes something tighten inside of Shiro’s chest, even when he knows he’s just projecting onto his food — but the smell makes him salivate so much, he wonders if he could drown himself like that, and Shiro can feel Keith watching him, waiting to see how this goes…

Closing his eyes, Shiro crams his fork into his mouth before he can twist himself up too much.

With that first bite, Shiro’s stomach quivers almost lustfully and he can’t keep himself from moaning around his fork. The sauce is so savory, spicy without getting too overwhelming or losing any flavor in the heat, and it mixes so perfectly with the cheese… Shiro _sighs_ in warm contentment once he’s swallowed, and maybe it’s more in his head than not, but he could swear that he feels his shirt’s buttons creaking as his gut swells out, still not nearly as full and stuffed as it can get, but bigger than it was and bigger than these buttons were necessarily made to handle. Tonguing at the inside of his mouth, Shiro tries to give due consideration the aftertaste (tries to figure out how he feels about it and what he thinks he’s getting from it), but it’s rough going when he’s more focused on his stomach. He adjusts himself so that he’s sitting straighter, then slumps harder into the cushion behind him. Setting his plate on the armrest, Shiro pauses to palm at his belly where it’s fullest.

He might take too long a moment, though, because before he knows it, Keith’s toeing at his thigh again. “Taking your time so Hunk can get feedback is one thing,” he points out with a smirk that’s a shade too fond and playful for Shiro to _truly_ feel reprimanded. “What you’re doing is wasting time to admire your stomach before you’ve partway filled it up. Not that I don’t appreciate it too, because it’s gorgeous — especially when it’s _engorged_ — but you know you still have work to do…”

With his best set of pleading puppy eyes on, Keith kneads his toes at Shiro’s flab and tells him, “Plus, it’s my birthday. Which means that I get what I want, right? Because sure, you’re _big_ , but I wanna see you _even **bigger**_ …”

Shiro nods and shoots Keith an eager smile. Fork in hand, he picks up where he left off on finishing his seconds. He takes his second bite and then his third, each one larger and more loaded down with enchilada than the one before it. Bigger bites will force him to spend more time chewing and appreciating the taste, so he can make good on the feedback. On the fifth bite, though, that strategy becomes unsustainable: the scoop of enchilada topples off of Shiro’s fork and he has to cut it in half to keep it from falling off and slipping away from him. Seven bites in and Shiro’s stomach isn’t exactly _protesting_? But as he groans into bite number eight, he’s feeling slightly heavier around the middle. Not as much as he’s made himself feel in the past, even outside of deliberately stuffing himself, but still that tightly-crammed sensation is starting to creep up on him, like the food, the milk, and the Coke are teasing him but haven’t _really_ started to expand his stomach yet, much less challenge its capacity.

Nevertheless, as Shiro scoops up bite nine and then bite ten, he can’t help wondering exactly if he underestimated how much Keith fit on this plate. Eyeballing it, he’d guess that he still has at least half his helping of enchiladas left to finish, and with every delicious, whine-inducing forkful, it’s getting easier for Shiro to take things slowly and reflect on the mix of tastes, the increasing amount of food that’s weighing down his stomach. Everything he slips into his mouth somehow finds its way into a crevice of belly that Shiro didn’t realize was there until something filled it. Even as he slowly runs out of ideas where everything can fit, even as he gets more and more aware of how _tight_ his stomach’s feeling, Shiro inhales sharply and keeps eating.

This is a state Shiro hasn’t let himself appreciate in a while. Any time he’s gotten close to it recently, he hasn’t done that on purpose, so he’s either missed the sensations passing by him or he’s flushed pink with embarrassment and, even if he allowed himself a few more indulgences, he’s pulled back from as far as he could go. Now, though, Shiro’s gut feels slightly crowded, but nothing about this _hurts_ and he still isn’t feeling the warm flush he gets when he’s _stuffed to the brim_. God, he wants to feel that, but in the meantime, he won’t argue with Keith snickering as he rubs his ankle into his boyfriend’s underbelly. Sure, Keith can’t go in too hard or he’d risk upsetting Shiro’s buttons, but the pressure helps by reminding Shiro. Knowing he has more room to fill, Shiro feels something in him itching for more, screaming at him to fill all this much free space already. He’s by no means hungry anymore, but if he has _any_ free space in his gullet, then he might as well be empty and it’s not that Shiro _can’t_ stop eating; it’s that he _doesn’t want to_.

No, now that he’s really in the swing of things, Shiro _wants_ to keep going and he wants to eat more, faster, so he can _really_ push his limits. Something guilty briefly catches in his throat over how much he rushes on bites thirteen and fourteen, but before he can let himself slow down again, he shakes it loose by cramming in bites fifteen through eighteen at an even faster pace. He has to pause for breath after bite nineteen and takes a long swig of Coke after bite twenty, but Shiro knows what he intends to do and it keeps him going, keeps him working toward a goal. He wants to pop his buttons and make Keith gasp. He wants to choke down bite twenty-two, then bite twenty-three, and however much else it takes to find the point where he _can’t_ fit any more into his stomach, like _literally cannot find more space_. He wants to stretch out his stomach past the point of hurting, until he’s too dazed to appreciate that it probably looks ridiculous.

More than anything else, though, Shiro wants to eat like the flabby, shameless butterball Keith called him earlier, until he feels as out-of-control as the _flabby, shameless butterball_ Keith called him earlier, until he feels so far gone that stuffing himself ’til he’s wedged into the booth at an all-you-can-eat buffet feels perfectly achievable. It’s about the food, and yet, it isn’t, because the food is the means and not the end. Bite twenty-seven and Shiro’s plate is nearly clean, and even with Keith periodically gasping or nudging his belly while telling him, _Oh my God, yes, keep going, you’re doing so well, Shiro — fuck, you’re outstanding and so good, eating like this for me, you’re so plump and fat and gorgeous, Shiro, and oh my **fucking** Godddd_ , Shiro can only focus on how badly he wants to make those play-insults from before into reality. How powerfully he wishes that the weight he gained this summer had been from a lack of self-control and not an absentminded accident.

How much he wants to be Keith’s _plumped up chubby hubby_ , too big and fat and soft to _ever_ get back to his perfect abs and perpetual stress.

That desire alone is almost as dizzying as being confronted with how close he’s getting to three-hundred pounds, almost as intoxicating as Keith working out in the living room with his hair tied back, wearing one of his tight tank-tops and his leggings, and with it nagging at the back of his mind, Shiro finally pushes through. He drags his last bite of enchilada (bite thirty-two) around the plate before he takes it, trying to sop up as much of the remaining sauce as possible. Once he’s swallowed, he lets out a heavy sigh and slumps back _hard_ into the cushions, lets a feeling like victory wash over him even though he knows he isn’t done yet.

Foiling any attempts at relishing this moment, his shirt rides up on his stomach as he does so, bunching around the spot where Shiro’s gut starts sloping out. Tugging it back down helps somewhat, until it doesn’t stay in place and starts inching up again, exposing the denim that covers his lower-hanging belly-pudge and the thick roll of his muffin-top. Shiro has to suck in to get that, and when he exhales, he’s still waiting for the shirt to protest how much girth it’s being expected to contain and creep back up the swelling, thickening curve of Shiro’s bloated midsection.

Pressing his fingers into a spot of belly that’s starting to feel a little tighter than the rest, Shiro allows himself a little groan and tries not to dwell on that thought about Keith contorting himself and getting all flushed and sweaty, wearing workout clothes that leave little to the imagination. Much as he _loves_ Keith’s juicy ass, and much as he loves seeing it in tiny shorts or yoga pants, there’s a familiar heat twisting around inside his belly, weaving its way through all the food and hitting Shiro in much deeper places. Not that he _minds_ it, but he’s only done with plate two of four, and that’s just before he gets to have dessert. Who knows how long he and Keith will take when they add in birthday cake. But Shiro’s held off for so long already, so he _knows_ that he can keep himself from getting hard, if he keeps his focus.

Keith crossing the sofa and cuddling up to his side again almost seems like the universe taking Shiro up on that unspoken bet. After he’s set Shiro’s plate over on the end-table and draped his legs over Shiro’s lap, Keith rests one arm on Shiro’s shoulder and drops the other hand to his stomach. Although he still denies Shiro a _proper_ belly rub, the contact is nice enough, the warm, gentle presence nuzzling up to him and brushing a hard but ever-so-slightly distended stomach against his plump side. With the same shifty, faux-guilty look he gets when pretending to yawn at a whole-gang movie night and hugging Keith around the shoulders, Shiro loops an arm around Keith’s waist. He fumbles about palming at Keith’s middle, probably getting even less graceful than he normally does when he’s stuffed or nervous or excited — but Shiro’s not gonna pass up the opportunity to feel up Keith’s tummy, not when he’s _right here_ , and so beautiful, and clinging at Shiro like letting go might kill him.

“Did you eat enough?” Shiro says with a chuckle, then steals a quick peck of Keith’s pursed, bemused-looking lips. “I mean, I’m just getting started, but I can still feel your abs, so really, baby. Did you eat enough?”

“I could feel _your_ abs when you were still skinny and you ate enough to want a tummy-rub. Temporary distention does not immediately add fat, you _know_ this.” For all he’s trying to sound stern and unamused, Keith betrays himself by smirking, then by pinching a roll of Shiro’s belly-fat that’s still quite obviously soft, and finally, by kissing Shiro’s cheek. “But yes, I ate enough. Some of us don’t have your capacity, and I want to have room for cake, when we get around to it.”

Shiro has a retort ready, but it’s cut off by a whine as Keith presses his thigh against Shiro’s crotch, rubbing him slowly, _gently_ —

“And I wouldn’t want to spoil my appetite for _something else_ besides,” Keith explains, as easily as delivering a weather report or telling a casual acquaintance that he’s fine. “Though I’m only going to eat it if you finish a whole serving of your cake.”

“That’s not actually a lot of cake, though.” Shiro says it without thinking, and blushes when Keith snorts at him.

“You… Oh my _God_ , Shiro, are _such_ a _**fatty**_.” It takes Keith a near uncomfortably long moment to recover and stop laughing into Shiro’s shoulder. When he does, he kisses Shiro’s bright red cheek and rewards him with a deep but gentle press into a tight spot around his waistline. “As if I’d ever _starve_ you like that, dumb-ass. ‘Serving’ right now doesn’t mean, ‘an _actual_ serving, like the recommended amount that the nutrition label tells you.’ It means, ‘all the cake that I decide to give you, however much it is,’ okay? And right now, I’m thinking maybe… A slice of the cheesecake, ‘cause it’s your favorite. A slice of the fudge cake, because I made it special. A second slice of whichever one you want. And at least one cupcake in each of the five flavors that Hunk whipped up for us?”

That all sounds great to Shiro, but at the same time? So does getting his third helpings of dinner.

This plate, Keith brings out with a preemptive refill on Shiro’s milk in one hand and another can of Coke balanced in the crook of his elbow, and Shiro only needs a once-over of his plate to figure why. In addition to another heap of enchilada, Keith’s put small mountains of Pad Thai and Pad See Ew out for his boyfriend, and another dollop of the mac and cheese. Snuggling up to Shiro’s side again with a smaller plate of dumplings for himself, Keith _says_ he picked the macaroni because the pizza and lasagna will reheat easier and keep better in the fridge, and he isn’t _wrong_ about that. Keith doesn’t hide his other interests very well, though, between failing to take his eyes off of Shiro’s middle and teasing his fingertips around Shiro’s straining buttons. It’s not hard to guess that Keith’s bringing out Shiro’s favorite thing from tonight’s spread in the hopes of enabling his indulgences, making it easier for him to let go, and stretching out his belly even further until, finally, something pops.

Digging in again, Shiro can’t argue with Keith’s hypothetical logic, and either way, he will basically never argue with Keith getting kinda handsy — which is fortunate, because Keith seems loath to pay attention to his dumplings, after eating one of the pot-stickers. He wipes his hand off on a napkin, sets the plate on one of Shiro’s thighs, and instead of eating, he takes to brushing his hand around Shiro’s midsection in slow, wide circles. This kind of affection’s always nice, the little touches here and there that remind Shiro how much Keith loves him, the easy, comfortable groping that lets him know how much his body drives Keith wild. As he plows through the macaroni, though, all of the teasing draws Shiro’s attention to his stomach and makes it hard to ignore the growing tightness in his gut.

Keith’s smirking like he knows it, too. Or more accurately, he smirks like he wants Shiro to know that he’s fully aware of what he’s doing to him.

While he prods at Shiro’s gut without going all in on a tummy-rub, Keith’s eyes get a hungry, wolfish glint to them. Fondling Shiro’s belly, he hums and gets that look of his like it’s taking ungodly amounts of effort to keep himself together and keep from running headlong into something that he wants. Maybe Keith nuzzles at Shiro’s shoulder and rubs his tummy against Shiro’s arm as an attempt at misdirection, or maybe he just feels like it — but either way, he _knows_ how playing with Shiro’s paunch will redirect his attention and make him really _feel_ how the food he’s already taken in is stretching out his belly.

It’s an effective strategy. Keith doesn’t fall into any predictable rhythms, changing up whether he uses his palm or his fingertips, whether he jostles Shiro’s fat or keeps brushing at it… Every now and then, he _does_ knead at a tight spot, but only enough to make Shiro gasp or maybe whine, _never_ enough to make him sigh from sweet relief. Shiro shoveling more food into his mouth is the only thing exacerbating the jam-packed, swollen feeling like there’s something in his middle trying to spread itself out further and snagging on Shiro’s skin. Still, Keith doesn’t let Shiro have a chance to tune out how much he’s stressing out his gut. Even if the caresses aren’t enough to relieve the pressure any, they keep Shiro grounded in the moment and keep his mind on his belly.

At least Keith isn’t heartless enough to pull this kind of stunt without giving his boyfriend some positive reassurance, too.

“You’re doing so well, babe,” he says when Shiro pauses to breathe after cleaning up the macaroni, his voice an indecipherable mix of earnest and devious. “You look so _happy_ like this, y’know? All plump and round and eating so good for me… I hope you’re happy…”

Shiro intends to confirm that he definitely is, that he loves Keith so much and he’s happier than he ever thought he’d be — but a burp comes out instead. It makes Keith giggle, and pinching on a tight spot along Shiro’s waistline, he tells him to keep going, ‘cause he’s still got a lot of food to finish yet tonight, ‘cause they can keep leftovers but Keith _knows_ that Shiro isn’t full yet.

Faced with the choice between the Thai food and the enchiladas, Shiro’s not sure where to go next. The Thai only wins out in the end because if Shiro waits on that, he’s going to end up with milk he doesn’t want to drink. Starting in on the Pad See Ew, he tries to rush through eating it. As much as he can rush without completely giving up his approach to chewing, anyway. Makes sense enough to him, as an idea. Hopefully, the spice won’t catch up with him until he’s done, and this way, Shiro can cram more into himself before his stomach _really_ starts to get annoyed with him, instead simply moderately irritated. But Keith cuts in before he’s even gotten halfway through the brown sauce-coated chicken, broccoli, and noodles, reaching up to press the glass to Shiro’s lips.

“You’re gonna gag yourself on spice again like that,” he explains. “I’ll hold the glass. Every few bites, you take some milk. Sound good?"

Answering with words feels like it might take too much effort — or if not that, it might drag Shiro too much out of this session and getting back into the groove would take too much work — so he nods and tilts his head back so Keith can let him have a drink. This slips easily into how Shiro’s been stuffing so far: Shiro rapid-fire crams the noodles in his mouth, then gets his breath while waiting for his milk or slightly after it. When he’s gotten all the noodles down, he nudges the plate at Keith so he can finish up the milk. Which is fine, except for how Keith doesn’t give the plate back. He arches his eyebrows like he’s daring Shiro to go after it and reaches down to set it on the coffee-table that Allura gave them as an apartment-warming gift when they first moved in.

“Okay, rude,” Shiro manages to tell him. “You _know_ I’m not gonna try bending over right now…”

“Uh, yeah, that’s kind of the _point_?” Keith almost sounds offended, though Shiro’s not sure at what or why. Either way, he sidles right back up to Shiro’s side and splays his palm across the fullest part of Shiro’s belly. “Look at this beautiful gut… Don’t you think you should get a little reward for stuffing it up so well? Something nice to keep you going through the rest? Call it a halfway there present or whatever you want…”

Apparently, Keith’s idea of a _halfway there present_ is to climb into Shiro’s lap for a deep, filthy kiss. Which is great, but Keith uses everything he has to distract Shiro from what their mouths are doing. Sucking on Shiro’s tongue, he rubs his toned thighs all over Shiro’s fleshy ones, spreads them wide enough to straddle Shiro, then tightens them as if he’s saying, _Feel how much slimmer mine are than yours? Feel that muscle squishing in your flab? God, Shiro, I could get **lost** in one of your legs_. Biting Shiro’s lip, he snakes one arm up around Shiro’s shoulders and uses the other hand to squeeze at Shiro’s chest. While pausing for breath, he nudges Shiro backward — the couch won’t let them properly recline, but Keith does what he can to make Shiro slump into the cushions — and stretches himself out on Shiro’s chest and stomach, writhing against him in a way that _almost_ manages to become a belly-rub, when it’s not calling attention to how trim and firm Keith’s waist is, especially relative to Shiro’s.

Going in for another kiss like he’s going in for the kill, Keith lifts himself enough to grind his hips against the swell of Shiro’s stomach. With a huff into Keith’s mouth, Shiro smacks his ass again, hard enough to make Keith give him a noise that sounds suspiciously like _eep!_ Trying not to laugh, he pinches Shiro’s tit again. In turn, that gets him a gasp and another grope of his backside — though Shiro lingers more on this one, lets himself enjoy it and squeezes Keith in a way that makes him moan and nudge their foreheads together.

“You’re such a brat,” Shiro says, tucking a piece of hair behind Keith’s ear.

Keith huffs and noses at Shiro’s cheek. “Takes one to know one, Gorgeous. C’mon, though. You’ve got a lot more left to finish.”

Without another word, Keith fluidly slips off Shiro’s lap. Before Shiro’s even fully caught up to the change of pace, the plate’s being shoved in his direction and Keith’s putting a forkful of enchilada in his mouth. He doesn’t protest — not that he would if Keith weren’t catching him off his guard — but welcomes it in, then takes the fork and dives right back into eating.

While he’s going at the enchiladas, Keith stays positively glued to Shiro’s side and for all his hand wanders all over Shiro’s stomach, the furthest away it goes is when Keith squeezes Shiro’s knee. The more Keith traces little rings around the button that’s pulled tightest on his boyfriend’s belly, the more Shiro wonders how the Hell he hasn’t started bursting from his clothes yet. Shuffling in his seat makes the waistband of his jeans dig harder into his hips. Looking down at Keith’s hand playing with his chub confronts Shiro with how his belly’s rounding out, inching toward his lap while the waistline-dip between his muffin-top and lower-hanging pudge gets less and less pronounced. It’s still present, and probably still visible around his hips, but as Shiro closes in on the point where his stomach _will_ protest in earnest, his expanding middle makes the dip stretch harder to accommodate how big and full he’s getting.

As Shiro’s finally winding down on his thirds, Keith nuzzles at his shoulder and reminds him that he’s doing so well and Keith loves him. Gingerly, he leans up to kiss at Shiro’s softened jawline. “Maybe you’re not done yet,” he says. “But you should still get a reward for eating so well for me, and I’ve got _something_ else that I think you’ll like…”

With a warm, contented sigh, Keith wriggles a lean, muscular arm underneath of Shiro’s pudgy, bulging ones, draping it across Shiro’s chest to steady himself as he shifts onto his knees and leans in closer than he should be able to pull off. Hugging Shiro so tightly is often a welcome gesture from him, whether it’s like this or sneaking up on Shiro from behind or clinging to him while they sleep. But Keith doesn’t stop there. He nudges even further into Shiro’s personal space, pushing his little, ever-so-slightly distended tummy up against Shiro’s elbow. He makes sure to gasp right up in Shiro’s ear, and as he uses Shiro’s arm to knead his own midsection, he never backs away.

It’s everything Shiro can do to make himself keep eating, while Keith fills his ear with that chorus of moaning, whining, groaning, and _Oh my God, babe, I dunno how you even do it, I didn’t hardly eat half what you have and I’m soooo full…_

As Shiro chokes down a huge bite of enchiladas, Keith grinds harder than ever at his elbow, moving against Shiro in long, slow motions, and groans at him about, _Ugh, Shiiiiiro, how am I even gonna fit the cake in later? I feel so stuffed already, you might need to eat mine for me… But you could do it, right? You could eat enough birthday cake for both of us, if you wanted… God, look at you go. Your belly’s so **big** and **round** and stuffed **full-to-bursting** , and you’re still eating like you know I’m right about how… You’re so good and so plump, I fucking love it… And I love you so much, okay? You, and your belly, and your beautiful, enormous ass… But mostly you, whatever shape you’re ever in, because I love you…_

Keith only finally drops that act to snicker and steady the plate of dumplings when Shiro jerks his legs and squishes his thighs as close together as he can get them. A breathy groan slips past Shiro’s lips, despite his attempts to just repress it, and Keith nuzzles and kisses at his cheek, telling him again how good and fat and beautiful he is. Still pressed against Shiro’s side, Keith trails his fingers down the ever-growing swell of Shiro’s stomach, and when he starts tracing circles around a button, Shiro sighs because he thinks he’s off the hook. Except Keith’s next move is to palm at Shiro’s crotch, to chuckle as he gently squeezes Shiro’s erection through his jeans.

“Mmmm, not _quite_ the ideal kind of pants-related tightness, at the moment,” Keith says with a subtle purr and a nip at Shiro’s earlobe. “But thank you for appreciating my hard work and by the way? You’re welcome. Oh, and for what it’s worth?” Although he doesn’t entirely pull away, Keith shifts and changes his angle just enough to rub his own erection against one of Shiro’s pudgy sides.

Keith shrugs and smirks at Shiro’s half-cocked eyebrow. “What can I say? Drives me crazy when you stuff your gorgeous face for me like this.”

Shiro says nothing, just shoves another forkful of enchilada into his mouth.

Once the rest of them are gone and he’s used a fallen clump of cheese to sweep up the sauce lingering on his plate, Shiro has to pause for a few more deep breaths and a swig of Coke. He feels _something_ building up inside him and refusing to come out, and after the burp that the Coke gets out of him, he _sighs_. Keith gasps expectantly, but after a moment, he groans in exasperation and slouches harder into Shiro’s side, dropping his chin onto Shiro’s shoulder. He jostles Shiro’s belly with a frustrated whine, but barely even reacts when that agitation makes Shiro belch again.

“Your buttons are the _biggest_ of all fucking teases,” Keith grouses, and probably as some kind of apology (whether for the complaining or the mild hypocrisy of it, at the moment), he rubs his knuckles along the waistband of Shiro’s jeans. “Can’t imagine how much they have to _fucking **suck**_ for you to deal with, right now… But you can do it, can’t you, babe? Stuff yourself all nice and big, and bust another pair of jeans off for me?”

Shiro belches, mostly because he fails to keep it down, but apparently, Keith takes that as agreement, a statement that Shiro’s ready for plate number four. He only pauses for a moment once he’s on his feet, and at that, it’s just to hand Shiro the plate of dumplings. According to Keith, he really did eat too much, if he wants to enjoy the cake, which he does, so he _needs_ Shiro to finish these for him because putting them back is _gross_ but Keith hates wasting food, so please eat them for him… But as fun as Keith’s story is, he’s so obviously lying that Shiro doesn’t even try not to chuckle at him. Keith smirks in recognition of that, and shrugs like, _What? I’m not above using silly gambits just to make you laugh._

There are eight dumplings on the plate when Keith leaves for the kitchen, three pot-stickers and five pierogis. Without Keith grinding on him or playing with his belly, Shiro’s left with just the tightness in his stomach, which is more than enough to make him gasp from looking too long at the dumplings. (Well, that and his cock finally straining against his jeans like it’s been threatening to do all night, but Shiro has to wait before he can do anything about that issue.)

He knows what he agreed to and how much he agreed to eat, but now that things are settling a bit, Shiro has to wonder if he can really get that done. There’s one plate and these eight dumpling’s left, and the flush he’s waited for is creeping up on him now, blossoming in his chest and radiating out in warm, languid waves like someone whispering that it’s perfectly okay for Shiro to just fall asleep right now… No, he can’t do that, not on Keith’s birthday of all days — it’s one thing to go to nod off while he’s unsatisfied himself, but doing that to Keith… And with the way their grease gleams in the lamplight like they want to tempt Shiro specifically and no one else, the dumplings do look so _delicious_ …

Shiro allows himself a deep breath, then all but inhales the lot of them. He chews, but nowhere near as thoroughly as usual, shoving a new dumpling into his mouth practically as soon as he swallows its predecessor, one after the other, until finally, they all disappear and Shiro isn’t wheezing or panting, but he’d definitely say that he’s _struggling_ … His breaths come to him more or less fine, but they’re _shallow_ and they’re _difficult_ and holding them in enough to steady himself feels like something Shiro can’t do. He doesn’t notice that Keith’s returned until he hears the plate clink on the coffee table, feels Keith rubbing a hand along his thigh while telling him to _follow along, okay, take a deep breath in through the nose, let it out through the mouth… Come on, Shiro, you’re doing so well and can do this… In and out, Shiro. In and out… Let’s do this together, I’m with you, I **know** that you can do this… In and out, iiiiin and out, **iiiiiiiiiiiiin** and…_

Shiro’s belly pushing forward on the exhale is nothing new. Dimly, he registers the sound of something dropping and clinking on the hardwood floor. But more immediately interesting is the way Keith trails off and bends down. He has something black and round and shiny in his fingers when he sits up again, not to mention a broad, lovesick grin lighting up his face. Shiro doesn’t put two and two together until Keith presses his fingertips into Shiro’s belly and starts kneading them against his… _skin, that is skin that he’s touching, and I… wait, what?_

With some discomfort coming from his heavy mound of a stomach, Shiro adjusts himself and looks down to where Keith _definitely_ has his fingertips pressed into a swath of Shiro’s skin. Around them, the fabric between two of his straining buttons bows out, and Shiro furrows his brow because there’s definitely too much space between those buttons, there ought to be a third one there… Keith prods into Shiro’s stomach again. It’s so tender that he can’t help gasping, but it does the job of getting his attention before Keith holds up the black, round something again, still beaming at Shiro like a one-person sun. Nodding silently, Shiro muses to himself, _Oh, so that’s a button, isn’t it… And it was on the floor, which means that I popped it off, which means that I must have…_

Shiro draws in another deep breath, letting it out in a heavy, tired sigh. Two more soft, clattering noises follow, and Keith picks two more buttons up off the floor. Losing the three of them off the bottom leaves Shiro’s belly free to push out further than it’s done so far tonight, though his jeans impede it from getting as far as it wants. The sides of his shirt bow out from right under his pudgy chest, making a triangle shape of exposed skin and plump flesh — at least until Keith slithers back to Shiro’s side and undoes the remaining buttons.

“ _God_ , Shiro, that was the hottest thing you’ve done all night,” Keith whispers against Shiro’s cheek, giving him a peck on the corner of his mouth. “And you haven’t skimped a bit on sex appeal tonight, so that’s pretty high praise…”

“ _Biased_ praise,” Shiro points out, turning his head just enough to graze his lips against Keith’s without entirely kissing him. “You’d say _anything_ I did was hot…” A wince as Shiro struggles to find a more comfortable position. “ _Especially_ if it meant I put my big, fat _gut_ on display for you…”

“I don’t think it’s hot when you run yourself ragged, fixing everybody else’s problems like you don’t have any of your own,” Keith tells him, protectively resting a hand over the fullest part of Shiro’s stomach. “ _Or_ when we’re already running late for something and you take forever preening in the bathroom as if you aren’t the most beautiful thing on two legs…”

With a shrug and a fond smirk, he steals a kiss. “Anyway, I knew you could do it… D’you wanna get out of this shirt before you finish dinner? Maybe make yourself more comfortable, especially since your jeans so _insistently_ hold out on us?”

He waits for Shiro to nod, then coaxes his arms out of the sleeves. As heavy as Shiro’s belly is getting now, it doesn’t completely pin him down. Leaning forward for Keith is hardly _comfortable_ , but taking off the shirt is worth it and Shiro feels an odd sense of accomplishment, watching Keith drape it over the other armrest. Without that constricting fabric in the way, Shiro’s belly looks even bigger, even rounder… Bigger than it’s ever looked before, now that he thinks about it… Then again, Shiro’s gotten _fatter_ than he’s ever been and this is easily the most stuffed that he’s ever been, and _God_ , they aren’t even _done_ yet, there’s still another plate and then dessert…

Shiro lets out a shuddering sigh at that thought, unsure how much of it’s excitement and how much is fear that maybe he can’t do this after all. Then, a groan slips out as he shifts to try and find a better position and his gut nudges at his cock. He slumps harder into the cushions, palming at the crest of his belly because even with all of the evidence, he can’t believe he’s eaten so much, can’t believe how huge he’s gotten lately without even trying to gain any extra weight, can’t believe how stuffed he is and how much bigger he has yet to get tonight…

He’s closing his eyes and trying not to grunt or whine or let himself focus any more on his burgeoning discomfort, when the plate clinks on the coffee-table again. Before Shiro can react, Keith bats his boyfriend’s hand away and off his gut. Telling Shiro to just lie back and relax, Keith massages his stomach, makes Shiro gasp and moan under his tender, attentive handiwork. When Shiro’s eyes flutter open, he smiles at the intense, serious expression Keith’s wearing as he kneads at Shiro’s waistline, digging his fingertips into the tight spots and the soft chub alike, then going at Shiro’s belly with his knuckles… Shiro means to give Keith an appreciative sigh, but comes up with a belch instead and flushes pink.

Keith frowns at him, wide-eyed and anxious. “You okay, babe? D’you feel sick or anything?” At Shiro shaking his head, Keith softens, but not by much. “Do you want to, _‘black’_ out for the night? Think about that before you answer, okay…”

Not that Shiro can fault Keith for his concern, but he doesn’t need to think too hard. “I’m good. Bring it on.”

There’s a moment of hesitation as Keith watches Shiro, silently asking if he’s _5,000% **certain**_ about wanting to keep going. But Shiro grins at him, and that eager, hungry look sparks up behind Keith’s dark eyes again. He squeezes Shiro’s knee again as he picks up plate number four, and when he hands it over, Shiro can’t help allowing a small sigh of relief. The plate is full, but nowhere near as overloaded as the other three have been so far. Most of the space is taken up with more macaroni, with a few of the teriyaki wings and three pierogis (and Keith promises that all of them have the spinach and goat cheese filling, because he knows what Shiro likes and Shiro’s done so well tonight).

Shiro starts with the wings while he still feels up to moving his arms. The plate gets balanced on his thighs again, and he tears through all of the chicken as quickly as he can manage; his longest pause is so he can lick the remaining sauce off of his fingertips. The pierogis, he savors a bit more thoroughly, but still: speed is the name of the game, at this point. Getting through all the food and getting through it fast, before his stomach’s groaning turns unbearable and before he can let himself seriously consider quitting. That’s easiest to pull off with the macaroni, even though there’s more of it and Shiro has to eat it with a fork, while holding the plate up closer to his mouth. As he wolfs the noodles down, Shiro’s head swims in the heady spell of the cheese and whatever secret magic Keith puts into making it taste so good ( _“There is no secret ingredient, you loser,”_ he’s said before, but Shiro’s not convinced), and Keith keeps kneading at his belly in a steady rhythm.

That attention from his boyfriend eases the pressure in Shiro’s stomach somewhat, but the most satisfying thing is Keith taking away the empty plate and cuddling up to Shiro’s side once more, putting his chin on Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro’s flushed and it might be a miracle that he isn’t sweating, and Keith isn’t even full-on rubbing his belly anymore. But everything’s worth it, just to hear Keith gently telling him that he loves him, that he’s done so well and Keith’s so proud of him, but breathing is important and Shiro has to do it. Falling into the long, slow _in and out, in and out_ pattern is so much easier with Keith pressed against him, with Keith’s tummy pulling away from Shiro’s arm when he inhales, then nuzzling against him all over again when Keith lets each breath escape.

And it’s relaxing, and it’s soothing, and with Keith’s reassurance in his ear, Shiro’s certain that he could take on a Cheesecake Factory’s entire dessert display case, if Keith wanted to carry him down to the car and drive them there. The logical part of his mind says this would never actually work out how Shiro wants it to, but the part that’s effectively drunk on Keith and food and more Keith? Oh, it begs to differ.

Judging from the sour face Keith pulls, he _also_ begs to differ. Or maybe it’s like he says and Shiro should know by now that he’ll get much better quality cheesecake out of Hunk than a freaking _national chain restaurant_ , never mind one that offends all of his mildly ludicrous bullshit about the benefits of eating local. Shiro smirks guiltily at that, because he deserves every word of that accusation, but as he lets out another deep breath, any retort gets smothered by the faint sound of _rrrriiiiiip! pop!_ and something metallic hitting the floor.

Groaning, Shiro sinks further into the cushions behind him as his belly spills out past its former confines. Without the button holding everything in place, the zipper gives way to Shiro’s gut as if it’s lost all hope. His chest flushes with pride at the soft gasp he hears from Keith, then even more from the needy, desirous little whine Keith lets slip as he reaches out to splay his hand over the roundest, tightest part of Shiro’s middle and give it a gentle shake, then run a finger over a deep indent that Shiro’s waistband left being. That’s still enough agitation to get another belch from Shiro, but it’s a small one; Keith’s probably louder when he slips off the sofa and onto his knees.

So many potential comments flash through Shiro’s mind as Keith starts peeling him out of his jeans and down to his boxer-briefs, but he keeps them to himself. There’s no need for dick-sucking jokes when Keith only wants his boyfriend to be as comfortable as possible and, as always, takes that desire seriously. Anyway, Shiro finds that he actually needs to _focus_ about lifting his hips so Keith can get the denim off of Shiro’s hips and ass and thighs. At least he hits easier goings soon enough and lets Shiro drop back to the sofa. Once the busted jeans are shoved out of the way, under the coffee-table, Keith perches between Shiro’s legs, staring up at him in pride and love and adoration. When Shiro asks him what he’s thinking, Keith squeezes Shiro’s muffin-top and tells him how much he loves this, how Shiro looks so good, so happy, and so _huge_.

“Love you too, baby,” Shiro manages to say, then moans as Keith finds a particularly taut-stuffed piece of belly with his knuckles. “But can it really be a birthday party if we don’t have _cake_?”

“Not with a fatty like _you_ in attendance, obviously.” Affection’s all over Keith’s face as he rolls his eyes and shoves himself to his feet. Crowding in on Shiro, he leans down for a kiss, soft and undemanding, with a startled snicker when Shiro bites his lip. “ _Especially_ now that you’ve got more space. D’you want the fudge cake or the cheesecake while I put the leftovers away?”

They both sound great, but Shiro takes the fudge cake. Hunk’s cheesecake is great, and strawberries remain one of Shiro’s greatest weaknesses, but Keith made the fudge cake himself. Even if there aren’t any literal secret ingredients, there has to be a spoonful of love in the batter, right?

“Whatever makes you happy, Tubby,” Keith says, rolling his eyes as he hands over a huge slice of cake, flanked by a massive scoop of strawberry ice cream and an only-slightly smaller scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough.

Fortunately, the desserts make Shiro _very_ happy. Not as happy as _Keith_ makes him, but pretty much nothing in the universe could hit that mark. Getting even partway there makes Keith’s cake very special, and while Shiro doesn’t want to sound too ridiculous and put Keith off, he moans around each forkful of heavy, chocolatey goodness, of cake interspersed with layers of homemade ganache and frosted with store-bought Devil’s Food. Some of his sounds are loud enough to get Keith’s attention, to make him snort audibly while he’s puttering around with packing things up or to make him call out from the kitchen, _“Quit acting like a bad porno, loser, or you won’t finish up and get your blow-job”_ — even though Shiro doesn’t intend to oversell most of them so much as he forgets any sense of volume control.

The better part of his moaning, though, is by Shiro and for Shiro, soft and breathy, making his fork vibrate in his fingers but not so overblown that he has no excuse for it. He alternates between the bites of cake and ice cream, treating the latter how Keith used the milk for Shiro’s Thai. Sure, ice cream is a bit too sweet to properly wash anything else down, but it _feels_ like a palate cleanser between chowing down on cake so rich that its taste clings to Shiro’s mouth, even when his tongue can’t find any dawdling hints of frosting or crumbs that got stuck to his teeth. He hears things clinking on the coffee-table while he’s working on the end parts, getting to the crust of cookie crumbs, and as he’s scraping the last bits of frosting off his plate, he feels the couch dip next to him, feels a warm hand spread out on his belly.

Shiro doesn’t smile at Keith until he’s cleaned his plate and set it by the lamp. He _means_ to say something endearing, sweet, and clever, but then Keith jiggles his tight-packed tummy, eliciting a soft belch that gets Shiro to blush bright pink. With a fond snicker, Keith jerks his head toward the table. Properly sitting up feels like something that Shiro _could_ do, sure, but for now, he simply cranes his neck to see what Keith’s put out this time: a smallish slice of the fudge cake for himself, pieces of that one and the cheesecake that are easily as big as the one that Shiro just managed to conquer, and a plate of five cupcakes, which all seem quite a bit larger than they did when they were in the box. Maybe it’s the globs of frosting that Hunk piled on top of them, but somehow, Shiro doesn’t think so.

He goes for the cheesecake next, affectionately rolling his eyes at Keith’s crack of, _“Your eyes aren’t proving bigger than your stomach, right? I mean, that’d be pretty difficult when it’s this huge, but you never know…”_ and digging into it with a mind to devour this slice as quickly as he can. There’s going to be leftover cake to go with the leftover dinner. Shiro can savor the taste more attentively later, when he doesn’t have Keith’s legs draped across his lap, or Keith’s thigh brushing against his straining cock too many times to be entirely accidental, or his own gut encroaching on his crotch as often as Keith’s legs do. Stuffing himself further may not help with the troublesome bursts of pressure issue — the bigger and rounder Shiro’s stomach has gotten, the closer it’s gotten to his lap and the heavier it’s been when while nudging up against his groin — but there’s no other way to get his sweet release, tonight.

That’s ample motivation, too: Shiro finishes his cheesecake before Keith’s even halfway done with his own slice. Fair enough, Keith’s been admiring the sight while Shiro eats, and he’s been kneading his leg at Shiro’s middle to get a free excuse for any time he “misses the mark” and hits at Shiro’s crotch instead. But still, Shiro swells with pride at how well he’s doing on his mission before Keith even confirms that he’s doing such a good job, and he’s eating so well, and God, look at how full and round his belly’s getting, he’s so beautiful, doing so good for Keith and in case he has any doubts, Keith loves him so much and he is hotter than the surface of the sun…

Two-thirds of the way through the second slice of fudge cake, Shiro shoots a wobbly smile in Keith’s direction. Not that Keith slowing down his praise is necessarily a bad thing, but once his own slice of cake is gone, he’s saying less, massaging Shiro’s belly more. Which certainly feels nice — Shiro’s so warm, and maybe he isn’t _comfortable_ , exactly, but the stretched-out sensation in his belly sends fevered shudders through his body as often as it makes him wince with pain — but Keith needs reassurance too, even if he’s not the one who’s crammed so full that his belly screams at him in protest every time he struggles to adjust himself (hoping that maybe, he’ll find a way to sit that _doesn’t_ brush his gut into his cock so often) and his skin feels scorching hot underneath his own fingers. Keith’s been so patient tonight, himself, and he has an erection straining at his own pants, waiting for fulfillment…

Words sound rather difficult at present — Shiro could manage them, he’s pretty certain, but he isn’t sure if taking time to spit them out would give his stomach the chance to make him sick — so giving Keith a smile before another forkful of Keith’s baking is the least that Shiro can do.

Keith brightens at his boyfriend’s expression, but he furrows his brow when Shiro hiccups softly, almost frowns when his next rub of Shiro’s drum-tight waistline gets another belch. When Shiro finishes the fudge cake with a groan, Keith takes the plate for him and piles it up by the lamp, on top of the other empty ones. Expectantly, Shiro holds out a hand; instead of getting a cupcake handed to him, he gets Keith climbing up into his lap again. The plate of cupcakes end up sitting on the empty cushion beside them, and Keith doesn’t bother explaining, but then again, he doesn’t need to. Deftly, his fingers undo the wrapper on a yellowish cake with white frosting and a garnish of shaved coconut.

“Hunk called this one the, ‘Special Summertime Surprise,’” he says, urging the cupcake at Shiro’s lips until he takes a sizable bite. “He didn’t tell me _why_ anything about it was a surprise, but I guess—”

“Chocolate ganache center,” Shiro says around the cake and frosting mushing around his mouth, before he can think better of it. He barely stifling the groan that crops up as his belly protests him shifting to give Keith more room on his lap. He swallows both the current mouthful and a belch before clarifying, “Vanilla buttercream frosting. Cupcake tastes like almond and coconut? Surprise is _definitely_ the ganache filling.”

“Quit talking. Eat up before you fucking _pop_.” Keith nudges his forehead into Shiro’s, then pulls back to let him go at his cupcake.

Obligingly, for Keith and both of their erections, Shiro takes another bite.

Up close, the cupcakes are definitely bigger than they seemed, and yet, getting the Special Summertime Surprise down is so easy, it’s almost automatic. Bite after bite, Shiro’s belly quivers and he can’t tell which part’s more powerful: the increasing stress of swallowing, the way that his stomach’s griping at him about how full it is and how little space it has left for anything else; or the way his mouth waters at the cupcake’s mix of rich ganache and cake so fluffy, it’s barely there, and the way his heart cries out for _more, more, more_ , yells at him to _just keep eating_. The only upsets, if you can call them that, come when Keith makes him pause and leans in to kiss stray crumbs or dabs of frosting off of Shiro’s eager lips.

Crumpling up the baby blue paper, once it’s empty, Keith goes in for a longer, deeper kiss. He slithers against Shiro’s belly, grinding into the fullness of it with his abs, his hips, his cock, and sucks on Shiro’s mouth like he can only breathe by taking the air from Shiro’s lungs. Any time Keith’s cock hits the swell of Shiro’s stomach, he fights to bite back his longing, whimpery noises. He tries to turn them into grunts or sighs instead, as though he can pretend like he hasn’t stressed his own limits by holding off so long, like he doesn’t need release as much as Shiro does. Not even Shiro whining into his mouth can shake Keith from that conviction; he keeps whenever he kneads his crotch into Shiro’s flesh, kissing Shiro like he can escape into that contact or digging his teeth into his own lower lip or muffling his noises in Shiro’s neck or shoulder. It makes Shiro drag a hand up from the sofa cushion, ignoring how amazed he is that he can still move it without discomfort, and protectively squeeze his pudgy fingers into Keith’s thigh.

Which is apparently enough of a reminder that they’re not quite done yet. Keith rubs against Shiro in a slow, firm stroke, dragging his erection up the taut curve of Shiro’s middle and back down again — and then pulls back to grab another cupcake. This one has dark, gleaming chocolate frosting on a white cake, with something red around the middle that has Shiro’s rapt attention as soon as he spots it there. Stretching his lips as wide as they’ll go, he chomps off a bite that’s large enough to overfill his mouth, puffing up his cheeks like a chipmunk’s. Absorbed in chewing, he doesn’t even try to pay attention to Keith trying to relay what Hunk said about this particular experiment in flavor. As nice as Hunk’s notes can help, Shiro can figure out the flavors by himself. The cake’s vanilla and definitely homemade, or so Shiro guesses from the way that flavor doesn’t get overpowered the chocolate. Both of them are rich, with the sugary chocolate and the rich vanilla complementing each other almost perfectly.

Tying them together is something smooth and sweet, but not too sweet… Maybe a little tangy? But not _too_ tangy either? But what _is_ it…?

Keith taps at Shiro’s jaw and once he’s swallowed, says, “It’s strawberry cream filling. That’s it, that’s the taste you’re making the, ‘Oh, wow, I am so confused by this difficult conundrum, what on Earth is happening’ face about, you nerd.”

Tilting the rest of the cupcake back toward Shiro’s mouth, nodding at the smaller bite that Shiro takes this time, Keith adds, “And as ever? You have _seriously_ become a fatty. Never would’ve guessed you had it in you when you still had abs, but… Really, it’s no _wonder_ that you packed on thirty-two- _and-a-half_ pounds without even _trying_ to get bigger.”

Strictly speaking, Shiro doesn’t _need_ to lean in any closer for bite number three. But he grins and does it anyway, snaking an arm around Keith’s waist to brace him and pressing his gut hard against Keith’s hips. That alone makes Keith gasp, but Shiro still missed the mark he really wanted. While he scarfs up bite number four, he chokes down his body’s objections with the mess of tasty cupcake and jostles his own belly, shaking it against Keith’s slim frame until finally, he hits Keith’s crotch. Keith groans; Shiro belches softly from the agitation. Finishing up the cupcake on bite five, he pulls Keith in even closer, bearing down on Keith’s straining cock, smirking into the crook of his neck at every breathy, whining little moan Keith gives him, and holds Keith there until he taps at Shiro’s shoulder and hisses, _“Cupcakes before coming, **Fatty**.”_

Number three is a golden, orangey-looking cake, decked out with a thick white dollop that Shiro recognizes as Hunk’s homemade whipped cream frosting. As Keith starts peeling off its pastel green paper, Shiro can make out something on top of the icing that looks like cinnamon? Or maybe sugar? The first bite says that it might be both, though the cake is _definitely_ cinnamon so who can tell, but by the second, Shiro’s stumbled into the gooey, chocolate pudding center and little else about this treat seems to matter. It has a perfect mix of sweet and gently spicy, tingling Shiro’s mouth _almost_ enough to distract him from the tight sensation overwhelming his midsection and the feeling like he could literally burst.

While kneading his free hand into the side of Shiro’s stomach, Keith says that Hunk called this one a Chocolate Snickerdoodle Sundae, and that Shiro should consider himself lucky, because it’s a new recipe and hasn’t yet been tried on anyone but Allura, Lance, and Keith.

“But don’t worry about giving him any notes on it later.” Keith purses his lips as Shiro nudges up against his cock again, cheeks lighting up with a raspberry blush as he _barely_ swallows back a whine. Furrowing his brow like he means business, he struggles to keep his voice even while explaining, “Hunk _knew_ I was planning to stuff you like _this_ and dessert was _going_ last. Said you could _give_ him feedback if _you_ really wanted _to_? He wouldn’t mind _iiit_ if you did? _Buuuuut_ also wouldn’t _expect_ anything _coherent_ , so…?”

Shiro smirks at the quivery, strangled sound of Keith’s barely-repressed moaning, creaking out on random words, betraying how sensitive his cock is getting to all of Shiro’s rubbing at it despite Keith’s best efforts to keep them down. Face still bright red, he tries to give Shiro a stern, tight-lipped, and singularly unimpressed frown. But he doesn’t get his lips pressed in just right and the glimmer in his eyes comes off far too fondly, even before Shiro gets over-eager, going at the cupcake, and comes up with frosting on the tip of his nose. That breaks Keith’s façade entirely. He snickers and leans in on his own, wriggling _just so_ against Shiro’s belly as he removes the frosting with a kiss.

Even with two more cupcakes waiting for them, Keith lingers there for a moment, pressed up against Shiro, Keith’s trim abs against Shiro’s distended gut and its surrounding chub, Keith’s hips and cock against Shiro’s lower-hanging belly-pudge, Keith’s firm ass fighting Shiro’s flabby underbelly for the right to encroach the most on Shiro’s groin. Their movements have no rhythm to them, nothing predictable or even feeling completely intentional. More than anything, they’re side-effects of being so close to each other and arguing with their different forms of discomfort, wanting to be closer still, despite the laws of physics and the boundaries between their bodies, despite the fact that the closest they get to this is Shiro nudging his fingers at the hem of Keith’s t-shirt and Keith stripping out of it for him, tossing it in the direction of the kitchen.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Shiro tells him, wincing as he tries to sit in a better position to admire Keith’s torso in the lamplight while Keith stretches his arms above his head and works a kink out of his back, the way he always does when he disrobes and needs to readjust to having nothing between his skin and the air around him. With an easy smile, Shiro brushes a hand up Keith’s side and inhales sharply at the tension in his muscles. But he can’t appreciate that for too long before Keith swoops back into kissing him as though that holds the answer for how they could find a way to ignore skin and bounds and physics, and somehow press each other closer.

Although they can’t manage that, at least not right now, they find a way to fall into sync with each other. Shiro pulls back when Keith’s thighs start trembling, when one of them bobs back and forth in that familiar, rapid, agitated way of Keith’s, unintentionally jiggling Shiro’s thigh and sending ripples through the flab, and when Keith groans like he’s struggling to keep himself and everything together and might appreciate not having to fight his boyfriend’s gut to find enough comfortable space in Shiro’s lap. In turn, Keith cuddles closer to Shiro when, with a groan and a soft, _“oof!”_ , he slumps into the cushions harder than he’s done yet tonight. Keith nudges their foreheads together and curls his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, whispering warm praises around his own gasp and whimpers, going on in stops and stutters about how _well_ Shiro’s doing for him, how he’s _so close_ to being done, how much Keith loves him. For several long moments, any rubbing at either of their cocks is accidental, the result of Keith using his abs to rub Shiro’s belly so his arms can keep hugging Shiro’s shoulders.

After a few long moments, Shiro drops the hand on Keith’s hip to lazily palm his ass instead. He nods when Keith meets his eye and gives him a curious expression; Keith gets the message perfectly. He wiggles away and comes back with a pile of chocolate upon chocolate, wrapped up in pretty pink paper. Simply looking at it makes Shiro gasp a little and, mouth hanging open, he leans as far forward as he can without making himself wince or making his belly complain about him moving around too much. The sight of that makes Keith roll his eyes and mutter, _“Such an impatient freaking **fatty** , oh my God… You **know** you can’t eat the wrapper, Tubby”_ — but Shiro’s blush is more from pride than anything.

Anyway, he deserves that fond exasperation and wouldn’t mind if Keith wanted to give him a more thorough ribbing for it. Shiro and his sweet-tooth love chocolate almost as much as he loves strawberries.

The twist in cupcake number four is not quite crunchy, but mixed in with the salty-sweet taste of what Keith identifies as a peanut butter-and-chocolate ganache center, Shiro keeps finding little harder pieces, some with ridges and some without. He takes smaller bites than he has before, so he has more chances to tongue at the little bits when they come up. Not that he intends to linger too terribly long, but between his curiosity and the stretched-out, overcrowded feeling in his stomach, Shiro’s okay with taking his time on this one.

He can hardly move at all, by this point, either. There’s how much his gut increasingly pins him down into the sofa, but more than that, Shiro’s cock keeps finding something to rub up against. Glancing down, he can’t see anything but Keith’s abs nestled up against his tightly rounded gut, but the heat Shiro feels is unmistakable. So is his crotch pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Most of the way through the cupcake, Shiro hesitates and groans, letting his back dig even further into the sofa cushions. He can’t believe that they still have any give for him, and he whines as his underbelly scrapes over his crotch, and as Keith pushes their middles together again, Shiro whimpers — from the pressure Keith puts on his stomach and the way Keith shifts against his cock without noticing. Trying to keep his breathing even, Shiro takes another bite when Keith holds the cupcake to his lips and tongues at the mystery bits while chewing so slowly that he could swear his jaw is creaking. He moans while swallowing but not entirely in pleasure, and he can’t ignore the feeling of something slick, and hot, and sloppy edging down the head of his cock.

Sighing softly, Keith brushes a piece of hair back off his boyfriend’s sweat-dampened forehead. “Crushed up Reese’s Cups,” he explains even though every word sounds like he’s forcing himself to get it out, correctly guessing at one part of Shiro’s current predicament.

He guesses the second part when Shiro dithers on another bite. Without questions or doubt, Keith’s free hand finds its way right back to the side of Shiro’s gut. For a brief flash of a moment, he caresses the chub he finds there, but he doesn’t wait that long before digging his knuckles into Shiro’s tummy with the sort of gentleness that Keith almost never shares with anybody, sending waves of heat and comfort washing through Shiro’s body, getting hot, whimpering moans from him with practically every touch, and going at the tight spots along Shiro’s bulging middle with so much care and dedication that Keith slips into a different rhythm, pressing his own cock against Shiro’s flesh, whining at the contact, pulling back then getting back into the belly-rub… until his cock nudges back into Shiro’s gut and everything else repeats itself.

By the time Keith shoves the cupcake back at Shiro’s mouth, he looks more flushed than Shiro feels, his face a blistery shade of red. In the lamplight, beads of sweat gleam on his forehead, and his voice trembles like he’s ready to explode as he please, “Come on, Shiro, you can do this… Just a few more bites, it’s _just a few_ … You’ve already come this far and done _**so well**_ , you could finish this one up in two bites, easy, if you wanted? _Maybe_ three… Shiro, come on, _**please**_ …”

That throaty little whimper is all the motivation Shiro needs. He polishes off the cupcake in two bites and jerks his head toward treat number five.

It’s another light brownish, slightly orangey-looking cake, coated in white frosting. But as Keith fusses with the purple wrapping paper, Shiro can’t guess what flavor said frosting is. When the light hits it from certain angles, it doesn’t even look completely white, like there are dustings of tan scattered throughout it, as if it got baked along with the cupcake. As Shiro licks at it, though, the frosting yields too easily and there’s no crunch to it — Keith mumbles something about vanilla and cinnamon, kneading his free fingertips into Shiro’s waistline, and as he rocks his hips at Shiro’s belly, he adds through a gasp that Hunk called this recipe a, _“Sugar and Spice [something something, Shiro’s listening as well as he can manage at the moment, but Keith’s exact words are getting kinda lost]”…_

Guilt bubbles in his chest over that, over missing what his boyfriend’s trying to tell him. But between Keith trying not to lose it and Shiro trying to keep his breathing steady so he can just dig in already, it’s fair enough if things get a little muddled. Whatever, they can talk about the flavor later. All that matters right now is Shiro, as Keith puts it (writhing against Shiro and whining like he’s putting everything he has into trying not to come), _finishing the goddamn thing already_.

Shiro takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes as takes his first bite, coming up with only cake and icing. He lingers on chewing, but only for the sake of his too-stuffed stomach. Any appreciation of the flavor is secondary, but still—

“Pumpkin spice,” he tells Keith, half-breathlessly, palming his ass and leaning up to nudge their foreheads back together, no matter how much that makes his belly scream at him to sit back down, no matter how hard the wincing twists up his face.

As close as Keith already is to coming undone, he manages to frown at Shiro in concern. It abates only _slightly_ when Shiro gropes his ass and kisses him with a mind to share the cupcake taste. Secondhand, it’s probably mixed up with all the other ones, as well, not to mention the other cakes and dinner… But still, Shiro slips his tongue past Keith’s lips and pushes his sharp hips against a swollen, bloated curve of belly.

“Pumpkin spice and cream cheese frosting. _Extra_ sugary,” Shiro mutters into Keith’s mouth, forcing himself to grin instead of wincing as he grinds his belly against Keith’s crotch. “Seasonal, and _very_ fitting for someone who I know…” He squeezes Keith’s ass, just in case there’s any doubt about who in Shiro’s life reminds him of the cupcake. “Make sure you have one of these for breakfast tomorrow, ‘cause oh my _God_ , Keith, I think I might just eat them _all_ … Like, I wanna devour every single one _myself_ …”

“ _Asshole_ … You only even had one… _ugh_ ,” Keith bites out, squirming against Shiro and whining with every motion, only pulling back enough to put the cupcake at Shiro’s lips without forcing his arm between their bodies.

“Keith, seriously, it is _just that **good**_ …” As if this proves his point, Shiro takes an even bigger bite this time, and without exaggerating anything, he moans as his tongue finds the cupcake’s filling, dried out sweet-and-spicy crumbles in a sweet-and-sticky glue. Rocking Keith against his belly in a slow, steady rhythm, Shiro takes bite number three and says around the mouthful, “Cinnamon streusel. More frosting holding it together. God, it’s all so _good_ , and _sweet_ , and _full of calories_ … Where d’you want most of them to go, huh? A bigger _gut_? A fatter _ass_? What about softer tits? Or those flabby dimples on my _thighs_ are pretty cute—”

“I want them in your _beautiful, **stupid** mouth_ , you fucking _**tease**_ …” Keith trails off into a groan as Shiro grinds his stomach harder on Keith’s cock.

Fair enough, and Shiro smirks and moans his way through three more bites. No matter how much his stomach protests and grouses that it’s certain that it can’t handle any more, no matter how much Shiro has to swallow a few extra times after each mouthful because it’s starting to feel like everything he’s eaten could bubble back up his throat, after how far they’ve come… He pushes himself through them harder than he pushes his gut against Keith’s crotch, and after bite number seven, Keith kisses Shiro harder than he’s pushed himself. Cupping his free hand around Shiro’s jaw, kneading his hips and cock against the curve of Shiro’s belly, Keith rocks against him with a breathy whine and sucks the cupcake taste and a few crumbs of streusel off of Shiro’s tongue. He tries to say something, but as he butts his forehead into Shiro’s, he can’t get out more than a few stammering syllables and he fails to hide it any as he _groans_ into another kiss.

“How big d’you want to get me, baby?” Shiro whispers against Keith’s cheek, then pulls away to take another bite. He squeezes Keith’s ass tightly enough to make him whine and guides him in stroking his crotch along the belly again.

Another bite, more moaning, then he swallows and says, “’m already pushing three-zero- _zero_ … Probably gonna get there _real_ soon, the way we’re going… _Three. **Hundred**. Pounds._ of fat-ass boyfriend, all for you to do _anything_ you want with…”

He pulls back for another bite, but doesn’t groan for it until his mouth is right up beside Keith’s ear. Once the cupcake’s gotten swallowed: “Already pretty big, but I could get even _bigger_ for you, if you _wanted_ me to…”

Another firm, full-handed grope of Keith’s ass, grinding belly into cock, deadset on breaking through whatever the Hell is making Keith hold back like this. “All huge, and _soft_ , and _**flabby**_ for you…” he hisses. “Get me so big that everybody wonders what you see in me… So _huge_ , I max out the scale for you _by myself_ … So _plump and thick and heavy_ , I burst out of new clothes almost as soon as getting them…”

Shiro winces as he presses harder at Keith’s cock, nibbles on his earlobe. “Really get me _**fat**_ , Keith… Get me so fat, I can _never_ stop myself from jiggling… So _fat_ , we use three-hundred pounds to say how _thin_ I used to be… So _fat_ that my gut shakes on the mattress while you’re _taking_ me…”

“While I’m _fucking_ you,” Keith corrects him between wheezing, desperate breaths, kneading his hips into Shiro’s middle harder than ever, making Shiro gasp almost as loudly as Keith makes himself groan. Grunting, he butts at Shiro’s forehead again, whining and pleading at him, “ _Finish it_ ” — which could mean getting Keith off or wolfing down the cupcake…

Shiro takes everything left on the wrapper into his mouth at once. His cheeks strain around it. Mushing it around his mouth, he has to breathe through his nose tongue smaller parts toward the back of his mouth so he can swallow without choking. But Keith whimpers wordlessly as his forehead hits Shiro’s one last time and he drops his hands to squeeze at Shiro’s flabby, yielding love-handles. Anchoring himself with them, Keith pushes his hips against Shiro’s belly, putting as much pressure into it as he can manage, clenching his lean thighs tighter around Shiro’s pudgy ones, rubbing at him faster and harder, squishing Shiro’s fleshy sides between his fingers like he’s hanging on for dear life…

Nuzzling at Keith’s forehead, Shiro whispers, “Get me so fat, no one can _ever_ doubt how much I love you.”

—Which makes no sense to Shiro once he spits it out? But it also makes Keith’s fingers clamp down harder on his love-handles… They both groan, but Keith’s comes out with a half-strangled whimper that claws up from the back of his throat… His abs go tense against Shiro’s belly, Shiro curls an arm around Keith’s waist to make sure that he’s not going anywhere… His thighs tremble like they don’t know how to stop… Finally, in a flushed, quivering mess, Keith shudders, and moans, and buries his face in Shiro’s shoulder.

After a few silent moments, Keith has his breathing more or less calmed down and drapes his arms up around Shiro’s shoulders. “Know I promised you a _blow-job_ ,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But _holy **shit**_ , you _really_ went all in on that, I don’t even…”

Nestled against Shiro, he grinds on Shiro’s cock and underbelly in long, slow, almost lazy motions, taking deep, shaky breaths as he presses into his boyfriend’s sensitive spots with more intensity than force… Without pausing, Keith nuzzles at Shiro’s neck and tacks on, “Unless you really _want_ a blow-job? ‘cause I _did_ promise—”

“It’s fine, Keith,” Shiro tells him, only barely keeping his voice even, protectively squeezing his arm Keith’s waist. Even if there’s nothing to protect him from right now, Keith should _always_ be held like he’s important, because he _is_.

At least Shiro’s pretty close to the edge, himself, and it doesn’t take much work from Keith to make him come. A few strokes of Keith’s hips and ass against his cock, and Shiro _gasps_ , he _whimpers_ , he _sighs_ , and as he comes and his orgasm unknots itself, all the tension wound up in his body seeps out of him, leaving Shiro flooded with waves of warm contentment.

Keith wriggles away from him as soon as Shiro’s breathing steadies, but only to help nudge Shiro around, so he’s reclining against the armrest with his legs stretched out on the couch. Fortunately, there’s enough room here for Keith to climb over Shiro’s legs and curl up on his side, with his head on Shiro’s chest, his abs nestled against Shiro’s pudgy side, and one of his hands ghosting easily over Shiro’s bloated midsection as if Keith is saying, _“This is **mine**.”_ There may not be enough room for this, someday, if Shiro keeps getting bigger and Keith keeps being so enamored with Shiro’s extra weight. For now, though, it’s a snug fit and Shiro much prefers their _bed_ , but the sofa’s still okay for cuddling.

“You really did so good,” Keith mumbles after so long, only the motions of his hands told Shiro that he hadn’t drifted off to sleep. “But whatever I came for? You know I love you, right? And I love whatever makes you happy?”

Shiro ruffles his hair and nods. “I love you, too.” Squeezing Keith’s shoulder, he adds, “But I _also_ know what gets you hot.”

“Yeah, I’ll say…” Nuzzling at Shiro’s chest, Keith _sighs_ , with the slightest hint of a whine, like he just got told that he can’t _really_ get a hippopotamus for Christmas. “Here, I thought I’d be able to _wear_ these jeans again tomorrow night. Thought I’d keep it together at _least_ ’til you got me naked…” A huff, and a squeeze at Shiro’s love-handle. “’s not gonna be _fair_ if Lance looks hotter than I do at my own birthday party…”

“So, I’ll make tomorrow laundry day.” When Keith brow-furrows up at him, all Shiro does is shrug. Still bemused, Keith jostles Shiro’s belly until he digs up a soft belch. Blushing bright pink, Shiro rolls his eyes and explains, “What? I already took the day off work so you could stuff me all you wanted tonight. Get the rest of your dirty clothes together in the morning before you go, and I’ll make sure your jeans get washed.”

The smile that blossoms on Keith’s face is nothing short of besotted, and he pinches Shiro’s love-handle by way of saying, _“Deal.”_

**Author's Note:**

> No, I have no earthly idea where this fic came from, or why it decided to get so long, or why it’s so uncharacteristically fluffy for my usual output. Aside from the standard, “I had an idea, then lost control of my life for four-and-a-half days, and then a fic existed,” your guess is as good as mine, if not infinitely better than.
> 
> ……Unless you guess that I made up all of Hunk’s cupcake flavors without any help at all, because yeah, okay, I picked them out? But I got the majority of the inspiration for them from the menu at **[Flavor Cupcakery](http://flavorcupcakery.com/cupcake-flavors/)** because alas, my own cupcake-making skills are nowhere near as advanced as Hunk’s.
> 
> I also hang out [on tumblr](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com) (and sometimes at my [VLD sideblog on tumblr](http://autisticsheith.tumblr.com)).


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